The Station, Part 31 cont.

So I know I must be dreaming, because this is not possible. I’m home. I would know this house anywhere, even if it is in the wrong place. In this ancient field of golden grass. The white slanted roof with the solar panels. The fusion generator to one side. The sliding doors that open into the backyard. My acacia is here too. And the grove of tropical trees. So out of place here. I see someone coming out of the grove. A man. Tall, thin, with a short beard that is so out of fashion it’s almost ridiculous. I know this man. It’s Dad. He’s carrying something over his back. Greenish yellow things. Bananas. He and Mom grow them. No synthetic fertilizers. Just dirt and sweat as dad would say. He looks so young. He’s never looked young to me. We must be the same age now. That can’t be. Oh yes, of course, the dream. But it’s so real.

The back doors open and this pretty young woman emerges. Her hair is long and blond. It shines in the artificial sunlight. I know this woman. It’s Mom. Her smile can dash away any sad thoughts in an instant. And it’s contagious. I can’t help but smile. And neither can my father, who grins back at her. He puts down the bananas and hugs her. She pulls back a little but still holds his arms. She says something to her, but there is no sound. But her words make him laugh and they hug again, even tighter. My father puts a hand on my mother’s stomach. I think my mother is crying now. But she looks so happy. They both look so happy.

Not my memory. You’re just making them up for me! It’s not fair. Goddamn you, don’t replace my memories! I would never, ever know of this particular day!

And now they’re gone. No, there they are. They’re dressed differently. There are more plants and trees in the yard. There is my swing set. The picnic table. It’s set with plates and napkins and such. I see fruits and vegetables from the garden. My mother and father are at the picnic table, sitting across from one another. Every so often my mother turns away to look at something next to her. I can’t see what it is. Then I see a small arm and hand reaching out and pick up a piece of fruit. My mother picks up a napkin and hands it to the unseen small person, who could only be me. They look so happy.

I don’t remember that at all. Is this another made up memory? I can’t tell…but it could have happened…

They’re gone again. Replaced by three small boys. Two are in my acacia. The smallest is still on the ground, looking pensive. One of those boys is me. The other two are my neighbors and friends. They are brothers. The brother on the ground. He wants to get into the tree with the others. Me and his big brother. We encourage him. And the smaller boy struggles. Finally, he finds the strength and willpower to pull himself onto the lowest branch. I and his older brother cheer. And then the little boy cheers with us. We are all so very happy.

That didn’t happen. That never happened. That little boy never got into the tree. He was never, ever in that tree. Now I know it’s a just a farce. You’re just mixing up everything. Stories I’ve been told, things that I wanted to happen, but never did. Just leave things where they are!