“Dream-walking…it could be the journey you need to find your true love, it could be the answer you seek to end a lie or even become the question to discover your journey. But sometimes, dream-walking can be something to write your name in a cloud and bring the attention of God.

My life has not been what I sought for as a child—bringing to the streets a handful of tears and looking to trade them in for some compassion. But the world does not think the same way children do, you see—children think with their heart; the world thinks with its greed. So my handful of tears was instead traded in for a service of running drug routes past the local police and sending me home with a handful of dollars.

 

We put the dollars to good use; my papa and I and although most would argue trying to save something already dead is useful only in hopes and dreams—fortunately for my papa and I we have always been the living hope in such dreams.”   

“Excuse me mister—“Came a small voice from behind a bleach white hospital bed. “Who are you talking to?”

            “Oh hello there little seniorita—I’m sorry, I didn’t think you could see me from over there.” The old man’s thin brown hand fell upon his bald head and slowly rubbed away at an invisible sore spot—his eyes narrowed almost wincing in confusion.   

            “That’s silly to think—I was just lying next to my papa when you sat down on the seat in front of us.”

            “I suppose it is silly to think that way…I didn’t wake you did I?”

            “It’s okay; yawn—I feel like I was sleeping for along time anyway—have you ever felt like that?”

            “Almost all the time actually; your papa seems to be sleeping that way too—raising a wrinkled brow and making a gesture toward the hospital bed; the old man slightly bit his lower lip and then continued—like an Angel.”

            She sighed; her eyes glazing over as she focused on a spec upon the floor—“My papa’s sick…My mom let me stay here with him while she works on her computer outside the door—I can’t sleep when the keyboard makes that click, clack, tap, clicking noise...”

            He crossed his eyes, then stuck out and wagged his tongue from side to side; his pudgy nose, long tongue and wrinkles making him look like a bulldog—woof!

 

            Looking up at him; scared at first and then letting out a snort and chuckle—she also made a face—she grabbed the skin beneath her eyes with each forefinger and the tops of her lips with each thumb and thrust her tongue in and out while going—“ooolll, ooolll ooolll!”

            They both laughed; then he leaned back on the chair like a child—“When I was a little boy I loved to hear quaint noises”—

 

—“What’s a quaint? Staring at him; she bit on her thumb nail.”

            “Quaint means, something strange or unusual.”

           

            “Oh, okay.”

 

“There was a train that made a long hoo’ing noise like an owl; it came by every night and I would stay up in my bed waiting until I heard the hoo’ing before I slept. Until the train came I let other noises keep me satisfied—like an orchestra in my own mind; I would listen to the sounds of the wind on my window and conduct the pitter patter of rain upon my roof top until it became my very own symphony—and when the weather was calm in the summer; I would find crickets in the park and put ‘the little violins’ under my floor boards.”

“That sounds neat; sometimes I like to imagine things too—my favorite thing to imagine is calling the wind home!”

“Calling the wind home? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such a thing.”

“I guess it’s a silly story.”

“Silly stories are my favorite.” He grinned.

“So you wanna hear it?”

“Right now I couldn’t think of anything I’d like to do more.” With his finger in the air he gestured his excitement and then by leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees and his two bony thin hands upon his cheeks he nodded for her to begin.

“Well, okay.” The little girl thinned herself a smile, crinkling the edges of her tiny blue eyes. “It started with my mom and papa moving here from our home in New York; my papa had some job that paid more in the city, but we still had to move; that part I don’t understand—but we moved really fast and when we got here I realized we had forgotten something. All day long I couldn’t remember what it was that we had forgotten—was it the laundry in the machine? No. The doll’s to my little house? No, I had them in my napper sack. I just couldn’t figure out what we had lost. My mom saw I was bothered and gave me a note pad; she told me, ‘write down a list’ so I did—and as I went through our things; checking them one by one from the list; so I would eventually know what I forgot—I started to wonder if I was just being silly or something. It got dark and then it was already time for bed when I finally got through that list and I still had no idea what we forgot.”

                                                            ***

            “Time for bed Gertrude; get on those jammies.” Sounded Gertrude’s mother from the hallway and over the; Click, tap, clack, click; from her keyboard which always seemed to be complimenting her voice.

            “But mom I haven’t found it yet!”

            “Then you figured out what it is you forgot?” Tap, click.

            “No.” Gertrude huffed.

            “Well there’s always tomorrow; now it’s time for bed.” Click, clack, clack, tap, tap, tap, click.

            A pitter pattering of small bare feet made their way to a small bedroom beyond a hallway filled with boxes; to the little girl the boxes seemed like monolithic stones of regret for the life her family left behind. It was in that night tucked under the warm sheets by her papa’s rough hands that Gertrude thought to herself for the first time of what would be many, ‘who are you?’ As Gertrude attempted to fit together a puzzle in her papa’s large dark eyes; she realized she had none of the pieces to finish her puzzlement.

            “The night is cold Sinorita; calm those questions in your eyes and lay to rest your thoughts for manyana.” Gertrude’s father roughly spoke from the deep cave of his throat; a voice dark and mysterious to her ears, she loved it.

            “Papa?”

            “Si, Gertrude?”

            Why did we have to leave? Is what Gertrude wanted to say, “Will you show me the rain again?” is what she said instead.

            Her father’s thin lips slightly raised and pressed tight to the meaty red gums of his tiny white teeth—Gertrude always found this smile oddly endearing, others found it ‘snake like and disturbing; slowly he sang:

 “Low was the light post

Hanging on the rain coat

Deep in the pocket of God’s hands

In the light on the coat there was nothing to be done

For the little girl lost in the rain

She fell to the tears of the light upon the hand

And called herself to blame

 

But God held his eye to the center of her heart

And made the world on fire to break apart

Burning came to last

Until the day was cast

Unto the falling rain

 

Step away my heart

Step away my heart

Step away into the rain

            I’ll lose my love when the rain will depart

            So step away into the rain”

            Closing her eyes; Gertrude imagined the rain pitter pattering throughout the small house; like her tiny feet upon the wooden hallway had sounded—it was always so real to her and she felt she could even see it after her papa’s song.

            A gentle creek of her papa’s careful foot upon the wood opened her eyes, a silence fell over Gertrude’s room then and she realized for the first time that she was not at home…“The voice!” Gertrude shouted in her bed, astonished; “We forgot the voice!”

            Gertrude’s papa moved back into her room; making the same creek upon the wooden floor on his way back. “Gertrude?”

            “Papa, I just discovered what we forgot; it is the voice, the voice of the city!”

            “Oh?”

            “Yes papa, you see? Listen.”

Gertrude’s papa tilted his head slowly to the right; towards Gertrude lying in her bed and listened…

“Now do you hear?”

            “No, I do not.”

            “Exactly, that’s because we forgot all the sounds; the cars, the people, the sirens, all gone!”

            Gertrude’s papa began to chuckle, “Oh dear you’re right, we did forget them didn’t we?”

            Gertrude suddenly became astonished at her father, “This is no time to laugh papa; this is serious!”

            “You’re right Gertrude, so what do you think we should do about it?” Holding back his laughter, he raised his head and sat with his daughter upon her bed—trying dearly not to let out a guffaw.   

            “Well papa, I think we need to go back home.”

            Gertrude’s father seemed momentarily nervous; but then he cooled and said with one of his snake smiles—“Why don’t you and I call home the wind?”

            “Papa?”

            He gestured toward the window and then gently took her by the hand; opening the window with a quick push he concentrated his face making sure he seemed earnest—“Come home!” He shouted loudly. “I’m sorry we left you in New York, please come back home! My daughter and I need you!” Once again he quieted; then cupped his right hand to the side of his ear and pointed it toward the open window.

            “Papa I don’t think—”

            “—Shh, listen; do you hear it?”

            Hugging her papa she pressed her ear against the open window and listened.

            “Honk” The noise was almost completely silent; but she heard it and stiffened with excitement.

            “I do!”

            “Shh, here comes more; the wind is bringing us more—then her father sounded,Breeeeeee Beep Beep Beep Breeeeee.” like a fire engine.

Gertrude smiled, then sounded; “Bark, Woof, Woof, Bark! SCREEEE! Beep Beep!”

Soon they were honking, beeping, barking and sounding all the noises they could remember from New York right out their window as loud as they could.

                                                         ***

            “Do you like my story?” questioned Gertrude—as she bit her upper lip.

The old man smiled and began to slide his smooth palms together, “Si, perfecto! You could become a professional story teller siniorita—mucho talent!”

“Thanks, hehe— that story you were saying before I interrupted you sounded interesting too…what, who was it about?”

“Oh, that story? Well that’s a very special story little one—a tale I tell only to very special people.”

“Oh…” Gertrude’s shoulders slumped.  

“Would you like to hear it?”

Gertrude smiled and the old man said—“Close your eyes, she did; now imagine a street—slow shivering winds entwine crisp dead leaves upon this street within a spiraled foretelling of the winter to come. She saw it so clear; she couldn’t believe it—can you feel the wind?”

“Yes…this is amazing! How am I able to…be here?”

 

“Because you’re no longer a young girl; now you’re a young boy—your face is pressed against an attic window”

 

“I see the leaves outside of the window!”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Rodolfo.”