Dream Last Night

I had left my boots somewhere.

I walked down route 66 until I found a small alleyway. It was small and winding. The path was cobblestone and there were small cafes lining the walkway. There were lots of people, but it wasn't crowded or loud. Everybody was speaking. I mean, they weren't just flapping their jaws mindlessly, they were speaking. Each person was engaged in the other and there was actual communication going on. The sun was in the middle of the sky, casting light down through bouganvilla plants that hung from the windows of rooftop apartments.

I was very happy.

I was interrupted by something cold touching my hand. I looked down and saw an enormous golden retriever sniffing my hand. He growled and gave a bark. I knew he was protecting this place, and rightly so. I knelt down and scratched his ears, saying

"I'd do the same, guy. I'd do the same. I'm just in and out, promise."

He licked my nose, and then trotted away. I loved that dog.

I took my first steps down the alley. Sun trickled down on my skin like the last few moments of a rainstorm, when all the violence is lost and the birds start flying again. Soft jazz and big band music meandered out from the shops and restaurants, from patios where happy people sipped wine and coffee while caring for the person across from them.

I almost decided to never leave, but then I remembered my promise to the dog. And I knew I had to go once I had done what I needed to do.

I saw the golden retriever curled up beside a music shop. He was a massive rusted orange guard, but I knew he would let me in. As I stepped into the shop, the smell of hand carved wood slid slowly over me like a blanket. Sweet cedar and oak made the shop feel like autumn, and the circular windows carved from the same windows continued to bring the sun down to my face.

The walls were lined with instruments, all acoustic. Guitars, lutes, violins, Violas, fiddles, cellos, dulcimers, and many other things I didn't recognize. But the most beautiful of them was on a table in front of an old man. It was a dulcimer, in the process of being made. The body was carved, but unsanded and unpolished. carving tools and saw dust littered the table where it sat, golden orb tuning pegs sat quietly in a small glass bowl. The old man was leaned back in a chair, eating a sandwich and drinking some tea. his beard was thick and white, save two streaks of pepper black that ran down from his mustache. I spoke.

"Sir, I -"
"Eh? Oh! Yer shoes. Well...yeahp. they're over there."

He gave a nod over his shoulder.

I walked over and there they were, looking the same as always.

Torn leather and paint stains. Some rough spots, others rubbed smooth. Frayed laces and green interior. I pulled them on, laced them up, and noticed how they felt the same as always.

I woke up.