Return of the Orange Golf Ball

Last night I dreamed of the orange golf ball again. It seemed to me as if it called my name, pulled me closer. As always I had sipped my Sleepytime tea from the Duchess china (really cute bone china) mug, as always I had filled out the bullet in my gratitude journal. I lay still and took slow relaxing breaths, in 2, 3, 4, hold 2, 3, 4, out 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. I released the tension, I sank into the memory foam, felt my body slipping away into sleep and then the golf ball, the glowing orange red golf ball.

Is it an obsession, a repressed memory? Roy says I need to see a specialist. I don’t know what he means by that; a hypnotist, a therapist, Tiger Woods for chrissakes? Suddenly it is with me; a golf ball. I don’t even play golf, and oranges give me lip sores anyhow.

I’ve never told anyone this but the night of the blackout, I was coming home from Jillian’s and I stopped at the railroad crossing on the Thirtyoak’s backroad, and I think (really I know) that is where it all began. I was borrowing my Mom’s little Hyundai and the dashboard suddenly went like bananas. I was thinking “no way is this my fault; this is because you went to Muncie’s Mechanics instead of getting the service from the dealership” then there was just this something in the night sky and my skin felt all electric. In a moment there was a sharp ball pitching by faster than some Indy 500 car, a vibrant orange golf ball. I gasped and it was gone.

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