Dreaming

I dreamt in Farsi last night. There were men—young men, few years my senior—and they were dark-eyed Iranians, their smooth tan hands coated in blood and dripping. The drops on the floor were mesmerizing in a sick sort of way, revolutionary raindrops to harvest a better tomorrow. They were slender and boyish and I could not help but gag as they carried the bodies of their fellow protestors and friends inside, away from the conflict. Some were already dead and some still stubbornly clung to life. The men were tired, it showed in their deep eyes, but their mouths were set firmly, their hands steady, practiced, as they tended the wounded. Their voices were low and determined, easily heard even over the gunfire. An injured boy quietly lay on the floor while another knelt next to him, comforting. A longer look revealed the boy’s scalp in shreds, blood pooling behind his head, a red halo. He blinked hard and tried to focus, but it didn’t take long for his eyes to stop moving, for his chest to stop moving. I wondered what his name was and who would tell his family—or if he had any family at all. He was so young. What could he have been? A writer? A politician? A doctor? His potential lay there, bleeding out on a white linoleum floor. That potential would dry a sticky, cracking brown and someone would have to scrub that potential up with soap and warm water, washing away the future.