Repetitions
1985; University of Missouri; Volume: 8; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/mis.1985.0022
ISSN1548-9930
Autores ResumoREPETITIONS / Lex Runciman A truck motors down our hill, sun on its windshield, a white, rusted hood. I glance at it and its anonymous driver. The time must be earliest spring or late autumn— long shadows, and no leaves on maples. The truck turns our corner and goes on and there, flat on the pavement, is my daughter. Even as the truck passes over her, she is screaming and I have never heard such terror. She wears a white shirt. She screams and stands, red stains widening as she runs towards me. There is a look on her face . . . Dream, I say to myself, to ignore the tears, her terror, my own mortal panic. Dream. Dream. And if she runs, it must be she survives. But what I see is her body, arms outstretched, a reddening shirt, and open, bloody mouth. As she runs towards me, I wake. Rational men believe dreams mean, like music, to instruct them. When I wake crazy out of that vision, I want only to order her mother: never dress her in a white shirt. I want to instruct all daughters with a permanent, terrifying intensity, don't play in any street ever. I want to abandon this house. Instead, rational, I write out the dream on paper folded in thirds amd burn it. Ink curls and is ash. I write it again here to ridicule my fear. 22 · The Missouri Review What a strange, disturbing dream, says my reasonable self, before it goes upstairs, before it brushes its teeth and avoids the mirror, before it looks in on my sleeping daughters and finds them as they are, the regular, . hushed respirations. Rain falls like pebbles. Face, and face. Name, and another name. Lex Runciman The Missouri Review · 23 ...
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