Death of a Dream

Yesterday I buried a dream. The dream had died a few weeks ago, but it took time to sort out some details, get my head and my heart prepared, and plan the funeral.

Had the dream begun four years ago, or twenty-three years ago? Perhaps it began at both times, for dreams don't obey linear time like other things. Twenty-three years ago the seed was planted, twenty years ago I started to water it, fifteen years ago it started to sprout, but four years ago it started to blossom.

Four years ago I started showing it to others.

And the dream became important to people other than me. We were excited with its continued growth.

But last year it started to wilt, and we couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.

So many conversations, so many fears and possible causes for the damage, but by the time we figured it out it was too late.

The leaves fell, and the branches became brittle in the last few months. I watered it with tears, but nothing changed, not for the better.

Finally, the truth couldn't be avoided.

Writing the funeral notice exhausted me. I made the announcement, then sent the notice out to all who had shared the dream with me.

And yet, during this time of anguish and fear, another dream has started to bud. Perhaps the death of yesterday's dream was necessary, so that tomorrow's dream could prosper.