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Most girls don't remember their Dream.
In fairness, I don’t remember all of mine either. I know there was a conversation, but I cannot recall a single word of it.
What I can recall is exactly what the girl in it looked like.
The next Fright Night I was struck, I don’t know from where, by the idea to dress up as her. I was not given a single piece of candy that night. Everyone who looked at me would immediately look away and promptly forget I was even there. Once I’d figured out what was happening, which I’ll admit took a couple harrowing and increasingly despondent hours, I cleaned out several “take one” bowls as consolation.
I kept the costume. I couldn’t not.
I got both into and out of quite a lot of trouble with it back in the day. Went places I shouldn’t have been, saw things I shouldn’t have seen (don’t ask why fourteen year old me thought sneaking into the theater to see Return of the Lungsuckers II was a good idea), even stole a few things. Eventually though I outgrew both the dress and the mischievous streak that had led me to use it.
I still kept it, though.
Years passed. College, marriage, my precious daughter, who always sits enthralled when I regale her with tales of my nights out fighting, divorce, and a dozen other life defining events. And through it all that old costume sat in a box, gathering dust in my closet.
Why, I hear you imaginary people in my head ask, am I thinking about this now after so many years?
Because the box is open, the costume gone. Because it’s nine thirty at night. And because I have just realized that I haven’t seen Skye since this morning!