Walking through the woods, she comes upon a great meadow, the grass golden in the early autumn sun and nearly twice as tall as she. Smiling, she leaps through it, her arms spread wide embracing the yielding shafts as they open a path for her. Suddenly out of breath, she looks around her only to realize she doesn’t know which way to go. She might even be lost, but doesn’t feel frightened.

As she closes her eyes and tips her head to the sky, around she spins, arms like wings. She falls back, laughing, and gazes at the blue sky through the wild grass engulfing her. She imagines the meadow wrapping its arms around her now, feathery fingers brushing against her cheek. In a voice that surprises her with its forceful, far-reaching clarity, she says, “I wish this moment never to end, for this is the happiest I’ll ever be.” Then, she hears the hard sound of a distant voice, calling her name. She doesn’t want to answer, and hopes she’ll never be found.

As Lydia looks out her brownstone window into the early morning light high above Columbus Avenue, she sees a dark bird suddenly fly by, ascend then disappear into the patch of steely sky above, somehow reminding her of this dream of last night, this dream she’s dreamt for so many years now.  Like many dreams, it began as something real, a true place and event in her past, so long ago and far away that it’s transformed into a fairy-tale lived only in the darkness and stillness of sleep.

Other than noting its familiarity, features, and general tone, she never before gave this dream much thought.  Where was this meadow and how did it come to secure such a long-lasting foothold in the cave of her imagination?  Why did she feel “it was the happiest she’d ever be,” lying in the meadow’s light-filled midst, and then, in stark contrast, that she wanted to hide forever from the foreboding voices calling her?