"The Quiet Relief of Waking"

In a dream, Folly Island, warm and wrong—where winter forgot itself and the tide remembered.

It’s not every day I remember my dreams, let alone take the time to write them down. But this cold morning—sunlight streaming through the bare branches atop Fort Hill, casting long shadows across the hillside homes—I remember.

​Just weeks ago, these trees were lush with summer green. Now, after a spell of rain overpowered a few snowflakes overnight, the snow that once blanketed everything has vanished. It feels more like a damp winter rain than true snowfall. Tomorrow marks the first official day of winter. I had hoped for a greater sign—perhaps snow dusting the hills—but that won’t be the case.

In one part of this dream, I was on a boat with others, drifting across turquoise-blue water, white waves rolling toward the shore. The calm was deceptive. I spotted my friend Kitty, basking on a raft in the sunlight. I tried to get her attention—a Bald Eagle soared overhead, a sight I wanted her to see.

As the boat touched land, I recognized Folly Island, just off Charleston, alive with people. But worry crept in. The spit of land was shrinking beneath the rising tide. How would we return to the mainland? People began diving into the water, but I realized—I couldn’t swim.

The dream shifted. Suddenly, I was back in Peekskill, moving something heavy. My Papa Candela dropped behind it, and his head broke off. I was hurt, disappointed. Now I’d have to find another one. Then the scene changed again—I was walking down a street in an urban setting, destination unknown.

Ahead, a policewoman stood—black hair tied back in a ponytail, stout, pale, not very tall. Between two parked cars, I saw the grey speckled sweater and black pants of my friend Joaquin. His hat had fallen. His face was pressed to the pavement. It was unmistakably him. I screamed his name. The officer turned to me and said he was already gone.

That’s when I woke. The shock jolted me upright, heart pounding, unwilling to accept a reality where Joaquin was truly gone. And as I sat there in the dim morning light, I looked back toward Fort Hill—bare, brown, and offering no sign of snow—and felt the dream recede, leaving only the quiet relief of waking.