Dreams and My Father

Grey trees: the garden a cool of still branches, hushed leaves, a dark path. I must be thirteen. My father leads through a darkened door, guiding through a ransackled hall, one hand 'pon my shoulder just for reassurance, quite like American Life Illustrated. Ahead toward a grey shadowed din of loud whisper babble. Pause at the stairs and gaze out below: grey men. They move through their own maze, though with no direction. I wonder why he's brought me here, what purpose guides his heart in this. He smiles as I look up, looks out upon this room of odd strangers I know must be entered. Why else are we here? We stand in the doorway. Descend the stairs counting silently three, unsure if he's by me; a lack of all color. The grey! Only grey. Disheveled, labor rough clothes, wild hair, unshaven, moving about among one another. One then stops 'fore me. Am I not alone? The approach is deadpan, eyes wide dark orbs, my head in his hands, his mouth upon mine. I'm helpless. Surrender. The dark never dissapates. Fade into grey.