Swept up in the current

I am with a group of criminals (or at least I get the feeling they are not so nice people), being herded down the embankment of the river at Niagara Falls.  There are other people like me being moved along against our better judgement and there’s a sheep.  The sheep falls into the water and I watch as it flails through the currents, but manages to catch some branches and get back to safety.  Then one of the men bringing up the rear of the group swoops up the little lamb and I’m feeling hopeful he will return it to the shore, but suddenly he throws it out to the center of the river where it has no chance of survival.  I can see it’s panicked eyes and it’s nose beneath the cold, clear waters.  I contemplate jumping toward the center, but I know it is already too late and the sheep rushes past out of reach.  

We are now swept up into a strong current along the shore and I can see a thin line of water that marks the edge of the earth; the line between life and death.  The others are pulled over, but I manage to grab on to a white oven attached just beneath the ledge.  The weight of my body on the current rips the door open and I fall.

Then suddenly I am walking up the trail toward the touristy shirt-shack in the woods and a woman on the shore hands me a stack of clothes to take with me.  There are racks of shorts and shirts- only differing in colors of browns and oranges and other colors- and I as I enter the shack I am thinking of nothing but returning home.  Inside the shack there are two workers who immediately stand back and say, “It’s happening again.”  I set the stack of folded brown shorts down on the counter and turn to see them staring wide-eyed in my direction.  I yell, “What?!”  I am angry because I’ve already lived through a very bad experience and don’t want to deal with anyone being dramatic.  They look frightened and this seems to anger me more.  I step forward and my body brushes one of the racks.  They watch the clothes moving and seem horribly frightened.  It’s enraging to me.  ”Why won’t you look at me?!”  I scream.  It feels so wrong that they will not look at me and that they seem so engrossed in the little things around them.  As this continues I realize they cannot see me – that I am a ghost.

Afterward a man comes into the shack and wants to order some food at the counter, so I throw salt down on the table and play with him because it brings me some comfort when the living notice me.  I pass my hand in front of another man’s face and he staggers backward – obviously aware of my presence.  I am elated he can “feel” or sense me.

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