Last night, I dreamt of chaos falling from the sky. I was standing outside a brownstone-style home—Brooklyn, maybe—watching a car tumble from the clouds like it had slipped out of a cargo plane. It hit the ground with a strange silence, the calm before the storm. Then, the explosion. A blast of heat, screams, people running. I ducked behind a wall with someone beside me, shielding myself and them from the wave of force. It faded, then came again. I shouted for everyone to get inside.
Inside, I found my son asleep in his room, calm amid the madness. But his bed wasn’t just a bed—it had a second layer below, like a drawer filled with hot oil and automated fryers dropping in onion rings and french fries. I remember feeling panic. Oil? Under the bed? What if it turned on while he was sleeping? I checked—it was cold. But still, it shouldn’t be there.
He stirred, wanted to turn on the fan, but the switch didn’t work. A cord hung from the ceiling, just out of reach—even for someone as tall as him. I offered to get a chair.
And then someone whispered: someone had come into the house while we were sleeping. Someone’s brother-in-law, they said. I confronted him—Why were you in my house? How did you even get in?
He looked at me with smug arrogance and said, “Your house was dirty.” I said, “Of course it’s dirty. I have five children.”
I said it with fire in my voice. I said it like a shield.
Reflections:
This dream didn’t whisper—it roared.
It spoke to the weight I carry, the way I guard my space and my family, even when the sky is falling. The explosion felt like a warning from the universe: something is coming, and I’m going to have to move fast, protect, adapt.
The fryers under the bed? Maybe they represent unseen dangers or stress beneath what should be peaceful. Maybe it’s about systems running on autopilot when they really need to be turned off and checked in on.
The uninvited guest? That’s every judgmental voice that thinks they can comment on the messiness of my life without ever lifting a hand to help.
But I’m the one locking the doors now.
I’m the one shielding my family from the blast.
And I’m the one who gets to say what’s allowed in my house—mess and all.
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