We were having a large gathering of family and friends for the holiday. I remember dancing with a truck driver I hadn’t seen in a very long time. Then he morphed into a guy closer to my age with spiky bleach blond hair and black framed glasses. He was an artist and bartender. He insisted on making me try one of his mixology experiments. While he was mixing cocktails, I was trying to draw on the refrigerator with a white board marker.
My oldest sister was sitting in the kitchen. She was pregnant and not feeling well. She was trying to explain something to her six-year-old son. He ran out of the room and our dad rushed in. He said some of his sisters had cornered him outside and asked if Sister was pregnant, but since she hadn’t announced publicly that she was he didn’t know what to say to them. They would know he was lying. My sister tried to stand up, but realized she was bleeding and made some comment along the lines of “perhaps I’ll miscarry and the whole thing won’t matter. It was like this last time.”
I looked over into the living room and saw my nephew pulling out his own teeth. I saw three drop onto the carpet. The same matted carpet my mom’s house had when we first moved in when I was nine. I rush over to him and pick up the teeth.
“Hey, you can’t be pulling out your teeth until they’re ready. Don’t pull out anymore or you won’t be able to eat.” I asked him to show me where these ones came from and he opens his mouth. There are quite a few empty sockets. Then I woke up.