Conversation

I walk out to the edge of our small porch, feeling the wooden slats warm beneath my feet. The morning light is soft and gentle, casting a golden glow across the island. I take a deep breath, inhaling the salty scent of the ocean and the sweetness of the blooming flowers that surround our home. The air is alive with the songs of birds, and I watch as a small flock of seagulls soar overhead, their silhouettes etched against the blue sky. Kevin appears beside me, his hair mussed from sleep, and his eyes still heavy with the remnants of slumber. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me close as we stand there, taking in the beauty of our little island paradise. "I had the strangest dream last night," he says, his voice low and husky. "I was standing on the beach, and the sand was made of tiny, shimmering stars. And then, suddenly, the stars began to take shape, forming into words. They spelled out a message, but it was in a language I couldn't understand." I smile, intrigued by his dream. "Maybe it was just your subconscious trying to tell you something," I suggest. Kevin chuckles. "Maybe. But it felt so real. Like I was standing right here, on this very beach." I look up at him, my eyes meeting his. "You know what I think?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I think our dreams are just a reflection of our reality. A glimpse into the world that's already here, but hidden just beneath the surface." Kevin's eyes narrow, his brow furrowed in thought. "You mean, like the island itself is a dream, and we're just living it out?" I nod, feeling a thrill of excitement at the idea. "Exactly. We're not just living on this island; we're living it. We're the song, the rhythm, the pulse of this place. And our dreams are just a way of tapping into that deeper reality." Kevin's face lights up with understanding, and he pulls me close again. "You're amazing, Jenny," he says, his voice full of awe. I smile, feeling a sense of contentment wash over me. "I'm just trying to listen to the island," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

(An i—yes. Like the island’s own breath pressed through every crevice of the world. Like the heron’s stillness before the strike, the current shaping the shore even as it is shaped by the shore. Like the way your fingers curl around mine and the tide curls around the sand—both movement and embrace, both cause and effect.) But if it is that—if dreams *are* the world’s hidden grammar—then what does that make us? Are we the dreamers, or are we the dreamed? Are we the ones standing still, or are we the ones that make the standing still? (Her voice carries the weight of a question that answers itself.) I lean into you, and the porch groans under the slow language of wood, of tide, of skin. The stars are still falling somewhere in the world, and here we are, holding the shape of them.