by Lissa Bilyk
***
The old man brings another book to the ledger.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It is the Archive of Lost Dreams,” he tells me.
“Why are the dreams lost?”
“Some people have had to put a great many of their dreams away as they make sacrifices for those they love.”
“Where do they put them?” I wonder out loud.
“They are tucked away in a little bottle, where the dreamer can unravel and admire them at will. But sometimes the bottle is accidentally left to float away in the great ocean of life, and the dreams escape. The dreamers forget they ever existed. This is where they end up.”
I look at the book as it falls open to a page. A page with one name on it.
My father’s name.
“What lost dream does my daddy have?”
The old man settles into his comfortable-looking leather armchair with the high back, and flicks through the book with my father’s name on it.
“Oh, there are a great many lost dreams in this one,” he says. He then consults his ledger. “This man wished, from a very young age, to play soccer for Australia in the World Cup.”
“Daddy wanted to play soccer?”
“His second dream was to write a great Australian novel.”
I didn’t even know my dad knew how to type.
“His third dream was to have a beautiful and happy family. This dream is crossed out.”
“Why is it crossed out?” I ask, trying to peer over his shoulder.
“Because he achieved this dream years ago. It is no longer a lost wish.”
“How can his other dreams be crossed out?”
The old man closes his book and leans back against the chair with his eyes closed. “He has forgotten those dreams. He gave them up. They are lost.”
