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It occurred to me in a dream that I have spent a good part of my life as an impostor.  I had returned to my alma mater, where one old English professor who happened to still be alive recognized me, took me by the hand, and walked the grounds with me for hours, talking about old times.

It is the dream of an impostor.  Mediocre college students come and go without a second thought, and I was, at best, a mediocre student.  My grades were fair, but my thinking was missing.  As far as I know, I may have only had one original thought in all those college years put together.  I was content to mimic then forget, and now, nearly everything that once passed through my head as knowledge has vanished.  I remember nothing.  I earned a degree, but I think I may have lost it.  Honestly, I can’t find it anywhere, and I’m beginning to panic.  I mean, what if after all these years I want to become a professional impostor and hang the degree on the wall.  What am I going to do then?

I went to my brother’s on Christmas and asked Mortimer.  He’s the one guy I know who’s stayed the same through all the years.  Well, except for the drinking.  I don’t remember him drinking so much when we were kids.  Maybe only one or two, but never before noon.

I am not dead, although my lips might very well be.  They are as dry as December corn husks and suck up Carmex as fast as I can wipe it on.  When I talk, the sound of them rustling together reminds me of a cold, Iowa winter blowing along the edges of some forgotten cornfield.

Santa came to our house, disguised as a man with a sore throat and messy hair.  He left some toys for my son, a nice flashlight for me, and a banana for my son’s mom.  That made the boy laugh.  “A banana?” he said.  I kind of like the sore throat Santa.  Such a joker.

On Christmas I unpacked books.  I had to stuff tissue up my nose to keep if from dripping on everything, but it was worth it.  Shelf after shelf of books, appearing out of nowhere, like a banana in an ex-spouse’s Christmas stocking.  As each book passed through my hands, I had to wonder how I ever married people who didn’t ever really think of books.  In hindsight, it makes no sense, but then they say that love is blind.  She showed up on Christmas day to see what Santa had brought, and can you believe it, said that she didn’t like the kitchen sink in her new house.  “I miss this sink,” she said, staring at my sink.  I’m not even sure the sponge was dry yet from me cleaning it.  Isn’t there an old saying that goes something like “packed everything except the kitchen sink”?

Last night I dreamt of Valerie, the girl from high school who I found out committed suicide several years ago.  I’d seen her coming and going from some building, but she would never make eye contact, even though I knew she’d seen me.  Just before I woke up, I saw her walk by again on her way to a bus.  My cellphone rang and it was her.  She wanted to talk, but it had to be quick.  Give me an address, I said, or a number.  Something so I can get in touch with you.  The bus was loading quickly and there wasn’t much time.  I don’t know, she told me.  I’m with someone who won’t even let my brother call me.  I just don’t know.  She tried to tell me her address, but it made no sense and I kept writing it down wrong.  We hugged and I told her she looked great, that she hadn’t changed a bit.  But as I said it, it wasn’t what I wanted to say.  She had changed.  She was better, and that’s what I wanted to tell her, but instead it came out wrong.  And then she slipped away with the crowd and climbed onto the bus and drove off.  I looked down at the gibberish on the paper and knew that I’d never see her again.

Can you call a cleaning lady the day after Christmas, just to see what she’s up to?  I have no experience with cleaning lady etiquette.  I think I need a good cleaning lady in my life, just like I’ll probably need a good ear, nose, and throat specialist in my life in about fifteen years.  That’s just a guess, though.  Maybe I’ll need some other kind of specialist.

One of the good things about being back home is turning the dogs out early in the morning and watching them charge out into the dark in all directions at once, barking their fool heads off at every dark lump that everyone knows by now are just dumb, sleeping cows that could care less.  Funny, kind of, how I eat chocolate candies the way a cow chews it’s cud.  I suppose if the dogs catch on they’ll start barking at me.

I had a dream about an attractive, petite woman who climbed onto my lap and let her bathrobe fall open.  My eyes looked her over, up and down, and she smiled seductively, leaning in to kiss me.  Just before our lips met, her nose brushed lightly against the side of my cheek.

What?

I couldn’t believe what I’d just felt!

The tip of her nose had a whisker stubble more bristly then my own face.  The girl shaved the tip of her nose!  I broke off the kiss and she proceeded to show me a tattoo on the side of her thigh.  A caricature of some man, with so many words tattooed above his head, that I found myself wondering how many years it would take for this girl to grow into her tattoo. 

Then my thoughts drifted back to her nose whiskers, and I woke up.

I like when Imaginary Keith dreams about those days on the lake.  He pulls on that mower rope and walks around in the thin grass, the sandy, rocky soil visible between every blade.  He sits on that swing and walks up and down the stone staircases, circling the house time and again.  Fishing poles are stacked on the lower back porch, the dock always needs painting, the boat house hasn’t been used in years and rots into the lake.  The furnace, tucked into a dark corner of the basement, roars like a dragon as you drop pennies through the large, iron grate above, listening as they bounce off of it’s metal head.  He never hears her coming, and grandma chases him away laughing.  Only a grandmother could protect a dragon from a little boy with nothing but a smile.

But it’s only a dream, after all, and we have work to do.  It’s a big day, so I shake him awake.

“Get up.  You need to make coffee.”

“Why’d you wake me up,” Imaginary Keith complains.  “I was dreaming about . . . “

“I know you were.  I was watching.  Now get up.  I need some coffee.”

“I was looking at the house, talking to some people about . . . “

“I know.  And that house was thinner and taller then it should have been, wasn’t it?  And the front steps weren’t there, were they?  You just walked right in.  I told you I was watching.”

“That’s kind of creepy, you know.  Sitting around, watching someone else dream.  Don’t you have your own dreams?”

“Sure I do.  I dream of you getting out of bed and making me some coffee.  It’s a big day, you know.  Historically significant, one might say.” Imaginary Keith was climbing out of bed.  One thing I can say about him for sure - he’s a good sport.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been paying attention to nothing?  She begins her official move into the other house today.  We move her.  We help her pack, we load things up, and we help her move.  But first, we drink coffee.  Now come on, hurry up, we’re running out of time.  Historical days aren’t any longer then ordinary old days, you know.  To really appreciate them, you have to get an early start.”

“But it’s 4 a.m.”

“My thought exactly.  The day’s slipping away from us already.”

I suppose some might say that historic days are nothing more then dreams that someone took the time to write down, because in the end, they all look pretty much the same.  Given enough time, today will feel like nothing more then another of Imaginary Keith’s dreams.

“Were you dropping pennies down the grate?” I ask.

“I thought you were watching?”

“I was.  I just wanted to hear you tell it.  It’s better hearing it then watching it.”

“Oh, you should have been there.  The grate was so hot we could barely lay there.  The heat was drying out our eyes and then grandma . . . “

“I saw her coming.”

“You should have warned me.”

“No.  It’s better watching her chase you off.  If I warned you, neither one of you would run through the house laughing.”

“Keith?"

“Yes.”

“Do you think they were happy? I mean, we only really knew them when we were just kids.”

“I know.”

“So do you think they were really happy?  I mean, happy when no one else was around.  Just the two of them, there together.  Do you think they were happy then?”

“I don’t know, Imaginary Keith.  I thought about that this summer, as I stared at the graves.  I suppose life was just as hard for them as it is for the rest of us.  Harder, most likely.  But I like to think they were happy.  I like to think that it all meant something.”

“Yea, me too.”

“Maybe they just sat around all day thinking about when we’d show up.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“I always do, my friend.  I always do.”