Aurora Borealis
The noon sun beat down relentlessly on the blue lake, evaporating a large cloud's worth of water vapor over the small
A single snow crystal, with its two basal and six rectangular prisms, created the facets needed to become a snowflake, unique to the millions of other snowflakes forming nearby. The six facets spread out, increasing in weight as they absorbed more of the condensed water vapor, until the snowflake fell toward earth under its own weight.
Hours passed as the snowflake drifted near the mountains, a helpless kite controlled by the erratic currents of air blowing across the peaks. In its last few moments of existence, it floated down the final stretch of its journey and landed on Brittany Murray’s warm tongue, and melted back to its watery state along with several other snowflakes she had captured.
Eight-year-old
Dressed in a thick insulated parka that restricted her production of snow angels on the large windshield, she still managed to form one that looked like it had baby wings.
She rested the back of her head on a mound of snow near the center of the windshield, stared up into the dark snow blown sky, and thought of Christmas only weeks away.
Her eyes closed to keep out the flecks of snow, then opened again as she feared she might fall asleep, as warm as she was from the heavy clothes and the warm engine. Her eyes blinked several more times until sleep finally won the battle and her dreams began.
Twenty minutes later she awoke to the sound of her brother calling from the house for her to come in. The snow covered her face, sending a chill through her body. She wiped the snow off and smiled. “What a wonderful dream. What a wonderful, wonderful dream! She would have to tell mother straight away.”
Once inside the warm house and out of her wet clothes she tracked down her mother in the kitchen.
“Mother, I just had the most wonderful dream about a small girl, an old lady, and fairies. May I tell it please?”
“Go ahead sweetheart. I just placed the cake in the oven, so tell me about your fairies,
“All right, mother. A young girl, like me, lived on top of a very large hill in a house like ours. She lived there with her father, mother, and brother. The house was located in a very cold place where they had lots of snow and very, very, very dark nights.
The little girl’s mother baked bread every day for all the pastry stores in town, and sent her husband many miles into the town to deliver the bread, while it was still fresh.
Twice a week the mother would tell the little girl to travel across the stream and through a forest to deliver bread to an old lady who lived by herself in the foothills. Each time the mother sent the girl, she would remind her to collect the coins for the bread from the old lady and if the girl didn’t return home by dark, she was to use the Northern Lights to guide her back to the house.
She did what her mother said to do each time she walked to the old lady’s house. The little girl became so sure of finding her way home using the Northern Lights, that she stayed later and later at the old lady’s house to listen to her stories and old wives tales.
One night after collecting the coins for the bread, the old lady told a story about how you can tell whether a child will have money when they grow older by placing a coin in the palm of a baby’s hands. She said if the baby drops the coin, then as an adult, they would never be able to hold on to money.
The young girl thanked the old lady and started to leave, as it was very late, when she accidentally dropped a coin. As she was about to pick it up, the old lady yelled, “Stop, child! Don’t ever pick up a coin that’s tails side up. If you do it will bring bad luck! Pick it up heads side up, and you will have only good luck from the fairies.”
The little girl was quite frightened and flipped the coin over from tails to heads before picking it up. She thanked the old lady again, and stepped out into the snowy night.
She walked the path away from the old lady’s house, and followed her old footprints in the snow until they faded out completely. The little girl looked up in the night sky to see the Northern Lights, but the snowfall was too strong and blocked the dim lights out completely.
Soon she was hopelessly lost. The snow fell so hard that it even covered the footprints behind her. She ran in the direction of where she thought her house might be, when suddenly the snow and ground beneath her turned to ice. She was on the frozen stream. She was so happy to know where she was that she laughed out loud in joy.
But then… she heard cracking ice. It gave way beneath her and she fell into the cold dark, murky stream. She cried out for help, but no one heard her. Then, just as her head was about to sink below the water she remembered what the old lady had said about the coins.
She quickly flipped all the coins to heads and prayed. Three bright lights appeared above the girl and suddenly she was flying above the trees, snow, and ice at a tremendous speed. Each one of the bright lights held on to a part of her and flew her safely to her warm house. The fairies! The fairies saved her just like the old lady said they would. The little girl was back home, safe with her father, mother, and brother.”
The psychiatrist tapped her notebook with her pencil.
“Do you believe you represent those little girls in your dream, Wendy?”
“I don't know. Maybe I am one of the girls, or maybe I'm both. I just wish I could go to sleep just one night without having the dream. Just one night!”
“Why do you suppose you have the same dream over and over again?”
“I don't know. That's why I came to you. You're supposed to help me. You're supposed to stop the dreams so that I can sleep. Why can't you stop them?”
“I am trying, Wendy. That's why we're here today. Do you think the dream is an important clue to the problems you’re having?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure. I guess there must be some reason I have the same dream every night.”
“Perhaps, Wendy. Freud believed that each dream had a hidden secret to explain how we act in the waking world. You keep mentioning the Northern Lights throughout your dream. Do you think there's any significance to that?”
Wendy covered her eyes with her arm as she lay on the couch, searching for an answer.
“No, I can't think of … Maybe it was because of Dennis. Yes, maybe I think of the Northern Lights because of Dennis!”
“Who's Dennis, Wendy?”
“Dennis is … was my baby brother. I remember seeing the Northern Lights the night Dennis died. Of course, that's it… Dennis.”
“Do you want to tell me about it, sweetheart?” The psychiatrist asked, as she hit the record button on her machine.
“Yes, I remember. It was a cold night and we were walking to the church for Novena. My mother always made me take my little brother to Novena every Monday night. I didn't want to, but she made me. The church was close by, but I always took a short cut near Elger's Pond.
I held Dennis' little hand as we walked though Elger's property down by the frozen pond.
The church broadcasted Ave Maria over the loudspeakers to call the parishioners to church for Novena. I loved to hear the bells play Ave Maria.
Then as we walked by the pond I remember seeing the Northern Lights dance across the sky. I was only seven, and I had never seen them before. They were beautiful. I must have wandered off the path, because suddenly, I heard a splash, then a scream, and I looked in my hand and all I had in it was Dennis' little mitten.
I tried to pull him out. I saw his face under the water in the dim light. He looked so scared. I reached for him and grabbed his arm but the icy water was too cold, and I couldn't hold on. Oh God! Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry Dennis. Mother made me take you. I'm so sorry!”
“All right now, Wendy, that's enough. Stop crying and listen very carefully to me. Do you understand me, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, that's fine, Wendy. Now here's what's gong to happen. When I count to three, you're going to wake up, and you'll feel much better. You won't have any more of those dreams and you won't blame yourself for Dennis' death. You'll realize that bad things happen and there's nothing you could have done. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't your mother's fault for making you go to church. All right, sweetheart. Are you ready to count? 1… 2… 3!”
Harold Petrillo sat up suddenly in his bed and looked over to the alarm clock to see the time. When his eyes finally focused, he saw that it was just 2:30 in the morning. He reached over to turn on the lamp and grabbed the notepad off the end table. Once he located a pen, he began jotting down some notes to outline a story of his dream about young girls, old ladies, a psychiatrist, and a boy named Dennis.
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