I know dreams are more than likely “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato.” (Charles Dickens) I know in ‘White Christmas’ Bing Crosby related different sandwiches to kinds of women he’d dream about. Dreams can come from a number of things. For me, I did have mustard and cheese yesterday, so they could be the reason mine was so odd. It was short. More of a scene than a dream, but I was sleeping and it woke me. I was on the step of mum’s house, bidding her goodbye. Everything seemed to be doing great and she was well. I told her since she was fine, I was going to go back to Oregon. I hugged her and as I hugged her she crumbled like paper. Or more like an old plastic doll when the legs and arms pop off. It wasn’t gross, but it was startling. She fell to pieces right in my arms!
Today wasn’t one of her better days.