On Tuesday night I dream of flying. Certainly I must have dreamt of flight before, but when I awake it feels like I've just been blessed with some great novelty. I seldom remember my dreams anymore, and when I do they are usually of a more banal, adult variety - dreams of trying to run uphill but not moving anywhere.
My daughter used to practice flying. She would fashion wings out of hangers, perch herself on the edge of my bed, and leap into the air. She also used to creep into my bedroom in the morning, her platinum blond hair ratted into an ethereal halo, and tell me her dreams. I would wake, bleary-eyed, and gaze in wonder at the little creature before me, reporting her nighttime visions like some ambassador from another realm.
She is five now. She is learning how to read and can operate the remote control all by herself. She can buckle her own seat-belt and, this coming fall, she will be in kindergarten. I can't remember the last time she practiced flying, or for that matter, the last time she told me her dreams. So last night when she tiptoes into my room and asks if she can lie by me, I readily concede. She snuggles into the bed beside me and quickly falls asleep. I am not dreaming, but I fervently hope that she is.