A dream in a bucket list…

The house of my dreams came to me today, and it lingered in my thoughts. Built with red bricks into the slope of a hill, it was powered by the sun and, in part, watered by the rain. It was full of windows, light, and open spaces.

The only stairs in the house led up to a wide room filled with books, and fitted with burnished wood and gleaming leather. The couch was soft, the poufs were colorful, and the swivel chair at a desk looked out, down the slope, over the winding road to the city.

Because it was my dream, the house was close to the sea, or a stream of water not far from its spring — it was still full of motion, and full of sound. In the lull of the day, when I listened, I could hear the playful waves of the sea splashing at the shore, or the laughter of a tickled stream as it meandered along its way.

The trees on the grounds were pendulous with fruit. Some lazy afternoons when I read a book in a hammock, the fragrance of oranges in the air was bright and delicious. In the night, a granite gazebo twinkled with the light of a dozen lanterns, and when loved ones came to visit, we filled the air with loud laughter and chatter, and the smell of food grilling in the fire pit out front.

In my dream, we had drums — goatskins stretched taut over hollowed iroko wood. We had shekeres and tambourines. We made amateur music and danced to the melody in our hearts, our waists, and our feet.

I liked that dream; it made me happy. I think I’ll add it to my bucket list.

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