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I recount to my father a dream I had.

In the dream, I pass from room to room. Each one is different.

I pass through a door and find myself knee-deep in yellow mud.

I climb through the window — only to find myself trapped in a baby food jar, three inches tall, a blade of grass crammed inside, holes poked in the lid above me.

(My father asks if he appears in the dream. I’m getting there, I tell him. Don’t want to spoil the surprise.)

I unscrew the lid from inside the jar and climb out of the bathtub drain in my grandmother’s house.

It’s raining outside.

I know she is gone.

In our dreams, we are more honest. No more orderly thoughts or plausible explanations. Just pure fear, guilt, memories, fantasies. We swim in the chaos of everything inside of us. We learn, however briefly, to fly.