“Don’t set your dreams out to dry.”
Momma sang this tune, improvised
differently each time in smooth Harlem Jazz, and I
would dance through life to her saxophone voice.
My little girl mind had barefoot
footprints running around in it, telling myself that
my dreams were far too grand to ever be misplaced.
but somewhere over the rainbow I got lost,
on my way to wonderland… I grew up.
My never-never land dreams disappearing into an
ocean of checks and balances- which were about to be
unbalanced. Crashing like the stock markets and car accidents,
I disappeared. Topsy turvy, my body got curves that
Momma didn’t have. And guys padded after me like dogs
licking at their empty water bowls- which, like their dreams,
had been set out to dry. Blowing aimlessly in the wind,
like a tire swing that will never be ridden again. No
ice cream truck tunes trumpet in my head.
I falter. Try to spread my wings and fly, but I’m stuck
under the sea. And no matter how hard I try, I
will never achieve anything, unless I
go back home to my roots. My renaissance heritage that
“Don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing.” Maybe I’ll
listen to my Momma: “Don’t set your dreams out to dry.”
Or better yet, once your dreams are dry… teach them to fly.