Daydreams

Lately I've taken to having very graphic daydreams of an unexpected nature: a mundane day in Boise, Idaho. I'll just be sitting on my bed here in Cambodia, under my mosquito net, trying to write a lesson plan or listen to the VOA broadcast on my shortwave radio, and suddenly, I'll be waking up in a cold house under a thick comforter. My parents' house. I'll take a trip to the bathroom and not think twice about the tall, familiar flushable toilet, the potable water pouring easily from the sink faucet. Then I'll go downstairs and pour a bowl of cereal, with real, cold milk. The door of the fridge will resist as I open it up to put the milk in. The cold fridge air will pour over my already-cold feet.

Perhaps the most satisfying part of my daydream is the part where I start my mom's Toyota. I put the key in the ignition. I turn it. As the engine rumbles I feel the slight vibration through the seat. The car has rear-view mirrors, which I check as I back it out of the driveway. The cool steering wheel resists as I turn it to enter the street.

For some reason my daydreams are always this simple, as small, familiar things from my life come back to tell me that they will still be there when I return home. But from here they are luminous, unreal. I know when I get home, I'll just be dragging myself out of bed to start the daily grind, and neither the sink nor the milk nor the car will retain the magic that now buoys them to the forefront of my drifting thoughts.