I cried a bit. Which is silly really, because it wasn't real at all. Then again, neither were the tears.

Papa, time to get up, he yelled, tugging at the covers. Huh? I plucked my tongue from the roof of my mouth and swallowed twice. That sh** taste didn't leave; it wasn't even lessened. Papa! Here I got a kiss for you, he planted one on the back my unshaved head. Gettup breakfast is ready, he shouted. Uh huh, yes, I replied burying my face deeper into the pillow.

After jumping on me, pulling blankets off me and tickling my toes a bit, I got up.

I pulled on old clothes. Blinked copiously. Wiped drool from my lower lip.

I wasn't sure why I was sad, not just tired but sad. I don't often wake up sad. I wiped my eyes. No tears, just crusties, sand, some goobers in the cracks. I was downstairs in the bathroom when I remembered. I was crying, weeping, sobbing, when was that? I remember my body shaking, my lips like little leaves in the wind. I remember Michael's hand on my shoulder as I fo0und the end of myself and sobbed. I sobbed so hard even he looked surprised. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and then walked away.

And then I remembered. In the fog of him walking away, was a little boy yelling, Papa, Wake UP!

So I can't remember the last time I cried in a dream, but although my pillow was dry this morning, I had that feeling, the release of having a good cry. Which is a bit foolish, because none of it was real.