As a teenager, I lived in two worlds. One was what you might call reality, and the other was created for me by the likes of Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and Arthur C. Clark. Both worlds gave me dreams, even nightmares, at times.
One recurring dream as a teen was flying through the sky on a personal flyer. I cannot remember whose sci-fi universe included these one-person flying sleds. Still, I clearly remember the dreams, occasionally even daydreams of flying to the rescue or seeking out the enemy. Later, similar fantasy devices made it to the movie screen, giving me a touch of deja vu at times.
Of course, other dreams were not so uplifting. There were dreams of being lost and not knowing the way home and dreams of attempting something heroic only to fail miserably. If this sounds like a lot of dreaming, it was. Still, dreams were my only escape from the reality I lived at times.
The dream that remains the strongest for me recalls a night I would rather forget. I was a young street cop and responded to a major accident on the edge of town. I found a demolished car and the tractor-trailer truck, which tore it in two when I arrived. I also found a seriously injured driver and his beautiful daughter.
The daughter was not the first dead person I’d encountered as an officer, but she was the first child. For years she visited me regularly. Thankfully, she no longer comes to haunt my nights, but she still shows up at times.
I can still remember her lying there as if she had fallen asleep waiting for her daddy to pick her up and take her home.
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