I had a dream. Not the MLK Jr. kind of dream. One of those ephemeral, all-in-the-head video reels that plays out while we sleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember the dream. All I could remember was this specific longing to move to Wyoming.
If I was a fatalist or the type of person that believed in destiny, I’d have thought this was a sign. But I’m not that person. I haven’t been for years now.
I’ve never lived in Wyoming. Never in my life wanted to live in Wyoming but there it was, buried deep as if I had belonged once, in a previous life, to those golden, rolling hills set against those impossible mountains. I wanted to be swallowed by the endless skies and belong to the empty streets of some town that knows it’ll never amount to much.
And I saw, or longed for, or envisioned, or made up a place where you and me and that baby we’ve been promising to each other for a few years now all existed together and we were happy.
“Let’s do it,” you said when I told you about my misplaced longing.
You’re supposed to be the rational one. I’m supposed to be the dreamer. And now I find myself dismantling my own longing just to fill the role I expected you to play.
“But you’d single-handedly double the Asian population of Wyoming.”
“Sounds kind of charming and noble.”
“We wouldn’t have anything to do up there.”
“You could write.”
“In the winter, the wind rolls through the foothills with such force it tears shingles off the roofs of perfectly good houses.”
“We’ll get a house with a tin roof.”
“You really want to do this?”
And you smirk and I melt and we both know we’ll never move to Wyoming but now we share a misplaced dream. And just like our misplaced child, it binds something between us.