When Dreams are Really Memories

During the course of my life I've had a few recurring dreams. One of them begins at the top of a snowy wooded hill in the depths of winter. We pile onto a sled (or maybe it's just me) and fly over the snow and down the hill through the woods of pine trees in the dark of night. It's a long but smooth ride to the bottom (if there is one) with snow flying and the cold stinging my face. If I could compare it to something familiar, it might be a bit like the Polar Express roaring through the dark of night toward the North Pole.

I never knew why I dreamed this, or what might have inspired the adventure, until about a month ago. One of my mother's favorite cousins passed away in October. His son, a few years younger than me, shared some thoughts he and his youngest brother had written. In the midst of their memories was mention of a sledding run down the wooded hill on their property. Their memory clicked with me, and though these two brothers are younger, there had been a set of older brothers as well, brothers a few years older than me. Could it be that on a visit to their house my own older brother had taken me on a sled ride down the darkened hill through the pines one night? I believe that is exactly what happened. The dream wasn't just a made up story from my imagination, but a vague and all but forgotten childhood memory.

No photos of the actual place, just a few of my own kids on a local sledding hill. Look at 'em go!