That prophetic dream begins with my mother and I shopping at a large supermarket
centre. We are slowly pushing a well-stocked trolley along the shiny linoleum floor, idly
looking into shop front windows as we exchange smiles and small banter regarding their
products and we chuckle at the sheer lunacy of what some people think they need in life.
Although we are indoors there is a definite sense of outside air brushing pleasantly over
our bare skin and there is a strong outside smell of open bush land. Casually mother and
son make their way to the outside area where we find the bus stop. My mom sits on a space
between two elderly ladies and they quickly set to making conversation, something my
mother has never been afraid to do.
I gaze about the hub of suburbia and spot a couple of teenage girls walking past rows of
sunlit shinning cars and note their bodies waltzing with a sensual pride born of youth and
freedom…and my loins tingle as the imagery of sweet kisses and nubile bodies tumble
through my sexual lens. Then a bus pulls up like a sleepy ghost; it is soundless and
strangely intrusive and I instinctively know it‟s not the one for us. I throw my glance
towards the two girls but they‟re gone and for a moment I wonder about whom in the
future will delight in the fruits of their gifts as they wander their way through the stretched
and shrunken moments of what will constitute their lives.
Then I turn my head back to the bench and I am momentarily perplexed to see that my
mother is no longer sitting there. Her two bench mates are still thick with babble between
themselves and our shopping trolley stands incongruously unattended with its several
stuffed plastic shopping bags. I look about me and then scan the length of the bus windows
until I spot her looking vacantly through the window at me. I go to board the bus but there
are two other large women blocking my access so I‟m forced to shoulder past them softly as
I tell the bus driver that my mother has stepped on the wrong bus and that I‟m going to get
her. He twists a frown upon a weathered and impatient bow and mutters “Be quick about
it, I‟m already behind time”. For a stretched moment my brain puzzles with the concept of
getting behind time. How does one do that? Does one have to travel at well over the speed
of light to a moment far into the future and then view it from a present that has somehow
mysteriously become the past? Then of course there is dying…no surer way than that to
“get behind time”.
I reach my mother and tell her that she‟s on the wrong bus. She looks at me with
puzzlement and I realise that she is acting as if she has never met me before and I
rationalise that she‟s being the actress again, which for decades has been an eccentric
behavioural pattern between her and I. However I insist that the bus is the wrong bus and
the driver is a grumpy old fart who doesn‟t want to get any more „behind time‟ than he
already is so let‟s get a move on, shall we. But she insists that this is the right bus, and that
in fact she has been waiting for this bus a whole lifetime. Her last remark informs my
defence system that things are not quite right. I sit beside her and wrap an arm around her
“The dream prophetic begged for my attention, but blinkered eyes cared not to see,
nor curiosity explore”…..Luana Maxine Moy.