Do you love your baby?
John’s Dream
I was searching through the grey deserted streets, peering up at dirty signs, and matching them against the hand-drawn map my Mother had given me, when I met a friend. He agreed to come with me because the museum didn’t seem to be far away.
Abolskaya. Ah! I remember that on the map. Yes, there. Turn right into Stelnikov Place and across. There’s the museum.
We ran across the square beneath dark leafless limbs and chattered up the steps to the door. Inside there is a desk with a very old man keeping watch.
“Oh no!” he said, “There are no children’s tickets here. You need the Trek museum on Slovskaya.” He gives muttered instructions while I try to follow the route on my map.
We thanked him and we ran down across the square again and out along a broad avenue, then right, and right again and left into another avenue. We crossed two squares, and then down a long street with trees from which last year’s growth had been cut. They were dark and weird under the day’s clouds.
As we got closer, there was no one around to ask for directions, the place was empty, but then all of a sudden, there it was: the Trek museum, solid against the sky. Again we ran up the steps and here there was another reception desk. This time a very tall guardian in a brown uniform stood behind it. When he heard my request, he leant far down across his desk and thrust his face into mine.
“We don’t give free entry tickets here. You must go to the office on Kramnik Street.”
We started off again with new instructions, street after street of apartments and then solid offices, until we reached Kramnik Street. There it was, number 2320. We pushed open the old brown doors and trudged up two flights of stairs to the office for Museum Tickets.
I knocked and went in. There was a bell on a counter. I rang it and the sound echoed into the distance down empty halls
There was a long pause and just as I had been about to ring the bell again, the door behind the counter opened and a woman came in brushing her hair back and adjusting her dress. There was a sound of a man’s laughter behind her.
When she had found and lit a cigarette, I made my request for children’s free entry to the Trek Museum.
She grimaced and said, “Yes, this is the office, but I am too busy to fill out forms for you today. Come back tomorrow and don’t forget to bring back a letter from your mother to say how old you are. You don’t look under ten to me. If the office is closed tomorrow, then come back the next day.”
Then I awoke and discovered that I had been dreaming about the US adoption process.
Home
John’s Dream
I was searching through the grey deserted streets, peering up at dirty signs, and matching them against the hand-drawn map my Mother had given me, when I met a friend. He agreed to come with me because the museum didn’t seem to be far away.
Abolskaya. Ah! I remember that on the map. Yes, there. Turn right into Stelnikov Place and across. There’s the museum.
We ran across the square beneath dark leafless limbs and chattered up the steps to the door. Inside there is a desk with a very old man keeping watch.
“Oh no!” he said, “There are no children’s tickets here. You need the Trek museum on Slovskaya.” He gives muttered instructions while I try to follow the route on my map.
We thanked him and we ran down across the square again and out along a broad avenue, then right, and right again and left into another avenue. We crossed two squares, and then down a long street with trees from which last year’s growth had been cut. They were dark and weird under the day’s clouds.
As we got closer, there was no one around to ask for directions, the place was empty, but then all of a sudden, there it was: the Trek museum, solid against the sky. Again we ran up the steps and here there was another reception desk. This time a very tall guardian in a brown uniform stood behind it. When he heard my request, he leant far down across his desk and thrust his face into mine.
“We don’t give free entry tickets here. You must go to the office on Kramnik Street.”
We started off again with new instructions, street after street of apartments and then solid offices, until we reached Kramnik Street. There it was, number 2320. We pushed open the old brown doors and trudged up two flights of stairs to the office for Museum Tickets.
I knocked and went in. There was a bell on a counter. I rang it and the sound echoed into the distance down empty halls
There was a long pause and just as I had been about to ring the bell again, the door behind the counter opened and a woman came in brushing her hair back and adjusting her dress. There was a sound of a man’s laughter behind her.
When she had found and lit a cigarette, I made my request for children’s free entry to the Trek Museum.
She grimaced and said, “Yes, this is the office, but I am too busy to fill out forms for you today. Come back tomorrow and don’t forget to bring back a letter from your mother to say how old you are. You don’t look under ten to me. If the office is closed tomorrow, then come back the next day.”
Then I awoke and discovered that I had been dreaming about the US adoption process.
Home