I had a dream about him last night. He looked like me, this twin, except that he could walk properly. His feet didn’t turn in, his eyes looked straight ahead.
He didn’t have Elephant Legs.
“How can you be here?” I asked him.
“I am everywhere you are.” he replied. “You carry me with you.”
“But how come you are perfect and I am not?”
“Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. And there is no such thing as perfection.”
I woke at that point, the alarm going off beside the bed. My husband hit the snooze button and I rolled over to hug him, all the time wondering if I had conjured the twin by writing of him.
Are metaphors supposed to come to life? Do dreams have shreds of reality woven into their lining?