I dreamt of an estate in Italy, at least that’s where my gut tells me it was. I’ve never been to Italy, but somehow I’m certain of the location. In the estate was a courtyard, and I saw me in it, wearing a violet and tangerine dress. Yes, this sounds like a terrible combination of colors, but I can assure you, it was a beautiful dress. Delicate and rich, like nothing I’ve ever own.
In the dream I loved the courtyard. There were raised gardens around the edges, and everything was made of old red bricks and gray stones. That place made me happy, but I wasn’t there anymore. I knew it wasn’t really me.
When I saw it, in my travels, I knew it was once mine. Just like I knew when I saw him, he was once mine, too. And he was perfect, and beautiful, and he made me happy.
But now he wasn’t there, and the courtyard was worn. Another woman owned it, and she didn’t like me being there. She didn’t like me remembering him. She wanted me to leave, but I couldn’t. Not without proof. Not without something tangible that showed I wasn’t insane.
When I found it, a book–leather bound, and falling apart, I knew my proof was on those brittle pages. As I reached for it–he was beside me. He reached with me, helping me pull it from the pigeon gray splintered shelf. The dry leather barely held the biding in place, and the pages were askew. One hand rested on my hip, his other on my arm.
And when he kissed me, I cried–because I knew it would never happen again. He left after that and I asked another man for help to find ‘him.’ We took a boat on the Mediterranean, but he was gone, and I was alone.
I’m not even sure why I’m sharing this, but I was online and I found an image of the courtyard. As I stared at it, all I could think, was, “Who was he?”
I guess I’ll never know.
(ps-I would have posted the photo but it wouldn’t let me)