I had a dream that I was frantically searching for my car. The people in the dream were people who I have little-to-no contact with these days, people who I care for but, for some reason, I’ve drifted apart from.
My frantic search led me through New York City streets I rarely travel through. I went through the lobbies of luxury buildings and even through apartments where the occupants shouted encouraging words.
Exhausted, I reached into my pocket for my cell phone and used the GPS. My car was parked several miles north. Inexplicably, I learned that it had been towed to an NYPD parking lot. I’m not sure how I learned this but it simply popped into my head.
Try as I might, I could not travel north. The more I ran the farther I was to where I needed to be. I decided to call my cousin, the ex-cop, for help. Surely he could help me, I thought. But I couldn’t get my fingers to press the right numbers to connect with him. I gave up by waking up from the dream.
And now I lie in bed listening to Mozart, the very music that played during my frantic search.
