Eel Dream

I dreamt that I brought home an eel. It was a sea eel with velvety black skin and fins with a soft white edge. The eel stared blankly, swimming in its clear plastic tank in slow s-curves, making the water look like corn syrup. I placed the eel’s tank in the refrigerator before I went to bed. This was a sea eel and I wanted it to feel at home. The ocean is dark and cold after all.

The next day I opened the fridge and discovered that the eel had given birth. The baby eel looked just like its mom, but smaller. I was surprised and happy to see the new eel. Momma eel looked pleased.

I took the eels out of the fridge and transferred them to a larger tank. The new tank was about the size of an English telephone booth. For some reason it was in the center of our living room. Debbie walked into the room. She took a hold of my hand. Together we looked at the two eels swimming together in slow s-curves.

Thank-you

I went for a run tonight. It’s been a while. The air was cold and dense with oxygen. I found my stride right away and I felt like I could run for hours. I ran in the streets rather than on the sidewalks because I was afraid of slipping on all the leaves. I ran down my street and then along the footpath just east of Lake. I then ran down the short switchback to the beach at Big Bay Park. The moon was over the lake, and it shone brightly. I got to the concrete pier jutting into the lake and stared at the moon and its far-off reflection for a while. The waves were crashing quite loudly. I then ran back up the hill. Halfway up I noticed the word “LOVE” spelled out with chalk on the path in large, clear lettering. Somehow I missed this on the way down. I stared at the word for a couple minutes. And then in my head I said to the anonymous author, “thank-you.”

Shoes on 3rd

Name

I’m a dad. Papa. Pa. Pops. Dadda. Father.

I don’t know which moniker I should choose for myself. My father was “Pa”. He liked the “Beverly Hill Billies” when he became a dad, and I think that’s why he chose Pa, after Ma and Pa Kettle. He did not call his father any of these things because he spoke primarily Illocano (sp?) and Tagalog as a child. It also seems his father may not have been around that much. I say this because my dad doesn’t talk about his father much. Then again, he doesn’t talk about growing up in general. I don’t know if there is a reason for that, or if this lack of storytelling is a cultural thing. Of course, I would like more context to my being, and family history has always been a somewhat of a weak spot. I think I need to ask more questions.

I’ll go with Pa, to keep the tradition going.