This morning I dreamed that I lost my son. He and I were in Bloomington, riding bikes. We were visiting, and were on our way to meet my husband at our old house. Well, my son K. got off his bike in a little urban neighborhood, and went to play in the backyard of a little cafe. He was playing baseball with all kinds of little boys. I was across the street, but I followed him when the traffic slowed down. I called to him that we must get going because we had a long way to ride, and it would be dark soon. He started toward me, but then I lost him in the crowd. I called his name over and over. I ran back across the street, and thus began a night of endlessly dialing 911, although I could never get it right. I dialed the numbers wrong, or I had the wrong combination of coins, or I had to exchange a fork I had in my purse for the right kind of coin, and it still didn't work. (!). The night passed quickly as I dialed, dialed, dialed, frantically, without ever reaching a soul, and then I looked up and it was morning. I crossed the street to the cafe and heard my son calling. He was above me, on a little balcony under the eaves of the roof of the cafe. He had spent the night there with all the other lost boys. I woke up, relieved.

But the question is, why do I dial frantically in these dreams without ever making a connection?