Dreams

The Stanley Cup Playoffs have finally begun, and while the Flyers have been a tad disappointing lately, I always rest my hope in their fate and blindly cheer them on. I like to tell myself that the pit I feel in my stomach these days is not at all something deeply personal but rather my nearly visceral concern over their goaltending situation.

I’ve had a recurring dream lately, which is odd because I seldom used to remember my dreams. I’m playing hockey in this one. I’m effortlessly carrying the puck through the neutral zone, nearly dancing as I glide over the ice. My head is up, I’m stick-handling well…I’m doing nearly everything right. Just then a new player appears, behind and to my left, and so out of my view. His stick is raised, and it comes down and chops at my feet. I never saw it coming. My skates are forced into each other, and I am thrown through the air. I crash onto the hard ice and slam into the boards, where I curl up and remain motionless. Suddenly it is all darkness. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. A soft, gentle, sweet hand, whose every contour I know and love. It…feels…so…wonderful.

And then I wake up. I guess it’s more of a nightmare, really, or at the best a cruel joke.

Today is Palm Sunday. The Mass, no doubt, will be beautiful and moving. The triumphant start to Holy Week. We all know what’s coming.