Last night I had a dream.

Not a dream of the future

not of being an anesthesiologist

not of a fresh pair of Yeezys

not of a buttery cinnamon roll.

Not a dream of the past

not of summers in Vigo, Spain

not of a once familiar Lauryn

not of an ice cold Arnold Palmer.

Last night I dreamt of a lake.

Lava Lake, nestled in between the Big Sky mountains

carved out before the times of George Washington and Pochahontis

where Rory wore a peculiar Patagonia cap,

a distinct shade of mustard yellow.

In the lake was a creature.

A loch ness monster.

However this creature was not something of terror,

but rather something of a Piccasso painting.

Along the rocks of the crystal clear lake were 35 salamanders,

the same shade yellow as Rory’s cap.

“Let’s go!” he exclaimed as he jumped off the jagged cliff and flew into the lake.

I peered over the edge and pondered diving into the depths of the dark green water.

“That’s huge,” I say.

Suddenly, I felt a familiar hand grip my own.

“It’s going to be okay, darling,” whispered a sweet voice that felt like cinnamon.

I turned around, tears forming in my eyes, and hugged my grandmother.

She smelled like Angel by Muegler and her hair looked fresh off the rollers.

“I love you,” she said.

I turned and bounded off the 35 foot cliff

and just as I was about to hit the icy cold water

I woke up.