Peter's Dream

Once, long ago, when the world was young, all the creatures of the red earth lived together in harmony. They were happy, for there was no sorrow, and none of the animals knew of death, for they had never seen it. Then one day, the spirits decided to take cockatoo, and the little bird lay motionless on the red earth.

None of the others knew what had occurred. Not wise wombat, not the snakes, nor the crows, nor the kangaroos, nor any others. What had happened? they all asked, and as they were pondering, the spirits came and lifted cockatoo's body up into the sky, bringing it home to them.

After waiting for some while, it was at length decided to send someone after cockatoo, to see what the spirits were doing with him and whether he would be returning to them, for the emptiness left in cockatoo's absence and the confusion the other creatures felt caused great sorrow. But who would approach the spirits? Who would seek cockatoo? Not wise wombat, not the snakes, nor the crows, nor the kangaroos, nor any others . . . except the tiny caterpillar.

What have I to lose? thought tiny caterpillar. I am so small that no one sees me. I am so slow that no one walks with me. I am so ugly that no one loves me. So I will go.

For many days and nights, caterpillar was gone. The creatures of the red earth began to forget about him, but then, on a morning wet with dew, the loveliest, most colorful being fluttered down from the sky in the animals' midst. Who are you? they asked.

It is I, caterpillar! cried caterpillar. I sought the spirits for many days and nights, and when I found them, they had changed cockatoo, and they changed me. For I have discovered that all creatures must die, but they are then reborn.


A new joy had entered Peter Sutton's life in the days following his heart attack. Though it had taken a near-death experience to bring the man to his senses, he now awoke every morning with a renewed sense of purpose, and that purpose was to delight in what time remained for him. It was amazing, what one stranger could do to affect another. Peter had a notion that he had never been as important to someone else as that young girl that had saved him had been to him. She had not only kept him alive but also given him a reason to want to stay that way.

Peter was home, now, back in his small apartment sandwiched between other single elderly people and small families unable to afford houses or apartments in safer areas. He had spent the remaining weeks of the college semester recuperating from his heart attack and subsequent hospital stay and had had a substitute teaching his basic art courses. He wondered every day how his students were doing; nevertheless, he had no desire to visit them and find out. The break from work was much needed. Peter spent his mornings drinking coffee and reading, and he passed many an afternoon at one of the two nearby cafés watching people or filling out crossword puzzles. He'd begun to smile at everyone, no matter who they were or the capacity to which they were interacting with him. Seeing children in their mothers' strollers or young couples holding hands seemed somehow dear to him now, as if he'd never noticed the simple beauties life held, as if he'd forgotten how to appreciate the simple gestures that held so much importance. It no longer riled him to consider that he'd come no further in his own monetary matters or relationships than when he was growing up in his poor old neighborhood. He did not become sullen at the thought that he had no other human being sharing his life with him. He had begun to say hello to his neighbors—to, in fact, even knock on their doors and ask for simple favors, such as borrowing a screwdriver or inquiring as to whether their cable was out, too. And these small things—smiles, hellos, waves, notices—these were responsible for giving him more felicity than anything he had ever known.

If that young girl had only known what she had done for him; she'd truly saved his life. Peter felt incredibly indebted, and so he vowed not to let melancholy anywhere near his heart, ever again.

How many people were like him? he wondered in the quietest moments, when he was drifting to sleep or cooking himself a small meal. There must be incalculable souls as alone as he, as without family or friends as he. And they, too, just as he once had, probably considered their lives valueless. They were of no distinction to anyone; they contributed in no great way to the world; they lived their lives invisible to the rest of the bright lights given off by the people who were not alone. And yet were their lives meaningless? Did they not, somehow, contribute in an even greater way to the world? For they did not dwell in the fog of drama and intrigue that so often clouded the worlds of those too caught up in living life; they were given clarity, in order that they may see the beauty of the world for what it was. Now that Peter understood that his life had purpose and that that purpose was to love the simple beauties overlooked by those moving too fast to see them, he knew that he had actually been fortunate to be alone. He had been one of the lucky few.

Some time after Delta College of Fine Arts had graduated its yearly crop of students, Peter had called to check that his seniors had made it. They all had, apparently. This at first pleased Peter, but a compulsion to make certain this was true caused him to search graduation announcements online just to be sure. Peter was good with names and knew most of the students that had been in his courses, but even he knew as he looked down the list of graduates that he sought one name in particular: Daniel Aldredge, that of the strange, silent young man that had worried Peter on occasion. Daniel was an odd boy, hardly ever talked or appeared to have eaten, serious and stoic as a statue and yet somehow also fragile. Daniel never smiled and had always seemed deeply preoccupied—not merely distracted—as if he were pondering the meaning of life.

It was for Daniel's name that Peter specifically searched, and yet he could not find it. His immediate thought was that the boy had dropped classes; his attendance had been sporadic at best, anyhow. However, the man called up the college just to be assured. What he was told, though, troubled him.

"No one of that name is enrolled, here," an attendance secretary had told him.

Peter had asked for the woman to check again, and again—to no avail. She could find no one of that name enrolled at present or ever enrolled at Delta at all. Peter was absolutely bewildered. He asked her to check his class rosters, but again—the woman found no "Daniel Aldredge" signed up for basic art.

As perplexing as it all was, Peter wondered if, maybe, he'd gotten the boy's name wrong. Or perhaps Daniel had given an alias. Whatever the case, Peter felt that a mistake in words had been made somewhere along the line. The young man had certainly been in his class—of that he was sure. After his heart attack, it could be that Peter was just mixing up names. Whoever that student had been, the old man hoped he was now all right, that he had indeed graduated and moved down some happier life corridor, as he was doing. 

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