Bushwhacked Again

by Bella Rum

imageI’m sitting here and waiting for Morning Joe to begin. H is still sleeping soundly beside me. When he wakes, he will go down, make the coffee, and bring a cup up to me. He shares this part of our morning ritual with President George W. Bush. I remember when Laura hosted Oprah and her crew at their Texas home, she showed Oprah the coffee pot, and told her that on their first morning at home after departing the White House, he resumed his longtime habit of bringing her coffee in bed.

I dreamed about him last night. This is not the first time I’ve dreamed about the Bushes. I have no clue why they pop in and out like they do, and in the most unlikely places. We never actually talk to each other. I just see them across a room, down a hall, slipping through a doorway, slicing onions.

Last night, a realtor was showing us a spacious, brand new condo. It was the model, and the interior design was beautiful. We were chatting  about the details when I turned around and there he was, looking around, as if he and Laura would consider leaving the ranch to live in a condo next door to us. That was it. Nothing more.

I’m not obsessed with the Bushes. I never even think of them when I’m awake. I don’t love them; I don’t hate them, I just don’t give them much head space one way or the other, but there they are, populating my dreams. I wonder when and where the next one will pop up?

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