I dreamed last night of my plant--the scraggly sprawling five-leaved plant that's in reality been with us for about 15 years. I was in a college-living kind of apartment and the plant was at one end of a long empty room with a hardwood floor. In the next scene the plant had fallen or been bumped over and hastily scooped together and righted. Roots were showing above the orange clay pot and I had a feeling of resentment of the negligence that caused this. I had to hurry on to something else.
Next I was in a station wagon with a few men--in their forties maybe and older than me. We were going golfing and my plant was also in the car, in the back on its side, dirt spilling. The driver explained that the course in our original plan was closed so we were going to Huron Hills (an Ann Arbor course my dad frequented as an alternate to his favorite). The car careened down a wooded lane, around winding hilly curves as we descended and my plant spilled more of its soil.
We ambled onto the golf course over a small hill (not by the main entrance, but directly onto a fairway), and my dad, now present, was explaining that the designer and owner of the course had battled prostate cancer as he worked on its design and construction.
I finally became incensed enough about my plant that I needed to go back to the car, my dad accompanying me with fatherly understanding and support. The car was now a long narrow wooden box with a clear glass top strewn with dust. The plant was inside, but now inaccessible, perhaps in the care of the greenskeeper. My father helped me wipe away the dust to see. There was a feeling of remorse for the neglect of the plant.
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I woke and as the dream shuffled into place in my conscious mind, tears overflowed my eyes.