Opening eyes from where I’m lying in bed, I analyze the rustic wood beams overhead, captivated by the contrast of dark wood against a white painted A-frame ceiling. Through the opening of a small, square window, I glimpse a bowl of blue sky. Assurance that the sun is shining and plans for a morning swim in the heated pool will materialize.
Bees buzz about the bedroom, a reminder that I am an expat living in England where screens on windows don’t exist. Their collective humming suggests the sweetness of honey and the dream I was having before the light awakened me.
“Pancakes!! I dreamt I was eating pancakes soaked in pure maple syrup,” I inform H, lying awake next to me. I can almost taste fluffy golden buttermilk pancakes drenched in melted butter and soaking in a sweet amber river.
But the more I think about eating pancakes, the more I realize the dream I’m savoring isn’t about satisfying a craving as much as it is about digesting what the pancakes represent.