Last night I dreamed I lived a whole other life.
I was in prison. A big tattooed man protected me, his face already gone from memory. Two officers terrorized me, worked me like a slave in the endless yard. I grew old in that cell, nurturing two bonsai lemon trees by my bed. I died quietly in my sleep.

Then I opened my eyes. 3:57 a.m. Same night. Same bed. Same wheelchair. Five minutes had passed.

All morning I couldn’t shake it. I made coffee with the weight of a dead man. My hands remembered years of gardening that never happened. My chest ached for the big tattooed friend I never had.

I think maybe dreams don’t just scare us. They age us.