I have this reoccurring dream every so often where I’m running through a field of corn in a pleated paisley skirt, high-waised and free-flowing, the kind my nana would have sewed by hand in the 70s; my arms outstretched to the sky, knee caps scrapping against brittle husks; and i’m running fast, holding tightly onto the string of a multi-coloured box kite as it twirls and spins overhead, taking me farther and deeper into the field; until at some point I find myself completely lost in the centre of it all; I’m compelled to let-go, to collect my bearings, but instead I hold on and start to float, the kite taking me higher, and higher, out of the field, above the clouds, and then I wake up.

I’m sure the dream doctors out there would have a field-day analyzing that one, but I’ve never put much thought into its deeper meaning, except to think that one day I’d really like to fly a box kite, a multi-colourd one, just like the one in that silly dream of mine.