I have dreams of His arms wrapping around me, carrying me through the storm, bringing the light to my dark soul. That could have lasted forever in my mind. I imagine walking through our pristine, petite, picturistic home, the warmth from His hand to mine emanates from the cardboard walls and paper floor. The piano notes filled with vitality and vigor float from his aged hands to transform this humble home to an honored Heaven. I never blinked in those moments, in fear of losing these golden gates my eyes had never seen before. Such joy can never be encapsulated in speech and words. One would call me a fool to exchange these Truths of Gold for moths of immorality. Nevertheless, out of those Ancient Doors I left to journey to the homes of wealthy folks, who filled their days eating nonsense, and drinking foolishness. I will never seen another man as emotionally heartfelt and sincere as Him, whose seeping eyes created drops of blood, when I abruptly pushed my way through His never ending arms to the pulling of death, captivity and grief.  I can still remember His Voice, gentle and firm, calling me to what I recall as Home. Each and everyday never failed to be filled with His Sound, until these harmonious hymns dissipated into the night, the never ending darkness which traded propensity for poverty and Heaven for Hell. The shouts and fire consume me until…..

I awake from another bad dream; tonight makes it the seventh in a row. I shake off the scrappy blanket twisting my torso, for sweat now drenches my clothes in the middle of a frosty November in 1942. I toss my ratty, chestnut brown hair of twelve years behind my shoulders and fold my knees up to my chest. The moisture in my armpits stains my clothes as I immerse myself in the distinct patterns on the hardware floor to rebuke any memory of this recurring nightmare. The crowing of Gertrud, our family rooster, urges me up out of bed. Even as I tiptoe downstairs with glimmers of a rising sun through the glass stained kitchen windows, my thoughts recollect the rude awakening. What does this mean? Is it something I should be afraid of? Is it a warning? My pious father had always believed in the power of dreams being foretellings of a Greater Power. I would always shake my finger at him and jokingly scold him, “is that why you’re always asleep?”. His laugh, belting and weighty, sounded strangely like the angelic figure in my dream. I look at a the only black and white aged photo in our home laid precariously on the counter. My darling mother is styled in the latest fashion, smiling proudly showing off her youth. Pa stands next to her, his muscular arm tucked around her shoulder, displaying his priceless wedding ring tight on his index finger. Word has it that he worked seven months just to earn a marital blessing from his orthodox father-in-law, and to hear the words “I do” off of my mother, Rachel’s lips. He often teases me when I stubbornly disobey, “you earned your hard headed skull from your mother. It took me seven months to convince her father but I shaved off seven years trying to convince her”. Suitcases are piled around them both like ornaments, promising a journey filled with a new hope and beginnings after the extensive war. It takes my breath away how two broken, impoverished souls could create a blooming family of eleven under one roof and a balance of twenty six cents. We always had enough, even when pa went overseas and it was only mama working to feed ten or when we had to dress in sackcloth to school when the bread prices got too high or when my sisters and I started selling our infamous “Salmonella Dozen Eggs” just to pay for school books. We always had each other, and that was more than enough. What else would I ever need?