In the dream we were at a craggy shore where the waves lapped shallow and gentle at the base of a natural three foot seawall of slowly eroding stony earth. The cold water was clear. Smooth, round stones of greys and browns, each about the size of a fist, covered the ground that was, at the shore, just a couple of inches below the undulating surface but sloped slowly down to the darker depths farther out. You and I were there. I was wading barefoot, my jeans rolled up to my knees, in the cold water. You were cupped in my hand, but you wanted to play in the shallow water near the stony wall. You implored me to put you down, but I was afraid because you were impossibly small. Not like a hamster or even an acorn. You were like a spec of dust. Not even like a grain of rice. You could have carved a comfortable two-story home out of a grain of rice. You were the tiniest spec of a loved one, a mote I held most precious, and you begged to be allowed to play in the gentle, cool water.
"I'll lose you," I said.
"It's not fair," you cried in your tiny, tiny voice.
"You'll float away. If I even blink I'll never be able to find you again. A tiny plankton will gobble you up."
"I'll be fine," you insisted. "You don't have to find me. I'll find you," you argued.
"I just can't," I said. "I'm sorry. You're too small. Just stay in my hand."
But, to my horror, you leapt with a "Wheeee!" from my hand. You didn't even make a splash. I stood, frozen lest I crush you, a cried out your name over and over. I could hear your tiny laughter below, but I couldn't see where you were.
Then I woke up.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?
Later. Love.
