LARKSPUR

I keep dreaming about my grandparents’ house again.

Not the version you see in the family photo albums, all cleaned up and pretending everything was perfect.
Not the polished version my mind peddles when nostalgia bites.
The real one. Belleville, Illinois. Floors groaning like tired knees, bricks out back crumbling into red dust, the motor-oil musk of my grandpa Vaughn’s shop, and every door creaking like it had a secret to tell the whole damn house.

Back when life seemed simple—because I was too young, too naive, to know how tangled it gets.

But now the dream always goes sideways. We’re not supposed to be there. Someone else owns the place. Still, my wife, sometimes my brother, and I sneak in, half-ashamed and desperate to reclaim our past.

We move like burglars in our own history, careful not to disturb anything—as if shifting one relic unravels the whole memory.
Trying to erase any sign we were ever there. Like ghosts, or criminals, or both.
Like we never needed to come home. Like we never needed anything from that place. Which is a lie.

It’s the same feeling every time:

You can visit your past, but you can’t live there anymore.

So you sneak in, pretending nothing has changed.
You pretend nothing has changed. You pray the new owner doesn't show up and call the police.
You wipe away every footprint, praying the new owner doesn’t walk in and call the cops.

That’s grief, if you’re wondering. That’s what it feels like. Like you’re breaking into your own life and hoping nobody catches you. It’s a weight on your shoulders, a knot in your gut, like you’re always about to get caught for something you didn’t even do. Like you’re walking through your own house and everything’s just a little bit off, and you can’t shake the feeling you’re not supposed to be there.
That’s exactly it. Grief is trespassing. Grief is pretending you still belong somewhere you don’t.

The Baseball Dream, or: Being Useful Without Being Used

Last night, my brain decided to take it up a notch.

Suddenly, I’m on the St. Louis Cardinals. One-day contract. Don’t ask me how. Dream logic is bullshit.
I’m not there to be a star. Not even close.
I’m not even there to be used. I’m just there. Breathing in air.
I’m the break-glass-in-case-of-emergency guy. The one you hope you never need.
Basically, I’m a human fire extinguisher. Only useful when shit hits the fan.

But then, ninth inning, something finally clicks.
I noticed the pitcher couldn’t see third base clearly—meaning they couldn’t pick off the runner.
So I told the coach.
He relayed the signal.
Double steal.
Runner on third scores.
Game won.

And for a moment, I feel what’s been missing: useful.

For a second, the whole stadium just stops. You can feel everyone holding their breath, waiting to see what happens. It’s just me, the field, and a teammate giving me that look—like, yeah, you did something right. For once, I’m not just taking up space. I actually matter.

Valuable.

Like maybe, just maybe, I’m not just a placeholder. Maybe someone actually wants me around.

Not as a sideshow. Not as the guy you call when you’re desperate.
Not as a spectacle.
Not as a last-minute hero.

But as someone who sees things other people miss.

That’s the dream version of what I want in real life:
A seat at the table because I see shit other people miss. Not because I can put on a show.

Recognition without having to beg for it. Without having to scream, ‘Hey, I’m here too.’

A future that doesn’t feel like I just got lucky and someone’s going to figure it out and take it away.

Belleville Again, Because Everything Leads Back There

Belleville’s just a short drive from St. Louis, so of course my brain mashed them together. Dream logic is a bastard.

Dana and I decide to stay at the Vaughn house. Same rules as always:

Touch nothing.
Leave no trace.
Pretend you never existed here. Pretend you never needed this place. Lie to yourself if you have to.

We pack up in the morning, nervous as hell.
The owner could come home any minute.
The police could show up.
We’re trespassers in our own history. That’s what it feels like. Like we’re not supposed to be here, even in our own memories.

We go to leave—and realize Charlie isn’t with us.

Panic. Full-on, heart-in-your-throat panic.
We run inside.

He’s there.

We grab him.

But when we get back to the car—

Charlie is already in the car.
We have two identical dogs.
Both are named Charlie.

And that’s when I woke up.

The Analysis: What the Hell My Brain Is Trying to Tell Me

So why the hell am I telling you all this? Because every piece of these dreams is just me trying to make sense of loss, of wanting things back, of figuring out who the fuck I am now. The house, the baseball field, the two Charlies—it’s all just my brain’s way of showing me what I’m still carrying around.

1. The House:

This is the last place my life made any kind of sense. Emotionally, anyway. Before everything went sideways.
The place before the deaths, before the trauma, before the running.
I dream about it because it’s the only place where the old me still lives. The one who didn’t know how fucked up things would get. That ache? It’s just nostalgia showing up when life gets too heavy. Isn’t that what we all do? Run back to some version of ourselves that didn’t know any better, just to get a break from all the shit we’re carrying now.

But the new owner? That’s adulthood. That’s the wall between who I was and who I am now.
That’s adulthood—the barricade between who I was and who I am.
That’s the barricade between who I was and who I am.
That’s the locked door. The one you keep trying to open, even though you know it’s pointless.

I want to be there. God, I want to be there. But I can’t. And I know it.

2. The Baseball Contract:

This is what grief does to ambition. It rewires it. Makes you want different things. Smaller things.

I don’t need to be the center of the story. I just want to matter. Even if it’s just for a second.
I just want someone to notice the thing I see. The detail nobody else catches.
I want someone to notice the thing I see. The detail nobody else catches. I want them to say:

“Good. Stay.”

That’s what usefulness is. It’s existential validation. Proof you’re not just taking up space.

3. The Two Charlies:

This is the part that terrifies me.

The Charlie we “left behind” = the fear of losing something without noticing.
The Charlie in the car? That’s the part of me I haven’t lost yet. The part I’m still holding onto for dear life.
The second Charlie = the part of me trying to resurrect what I’ve already mourned.

It’s my brain doing CPR on every loss I haven’t figured out how to live with.

And after the year I’ve had, can you blame me?
Dad dying.
Friends dying.
My dog is having a stroke in my arms—
Of course I’m dreaming about doubles. Duplicates. Trying to preserve what I love because I’m terrified it’ll all disappear.

My brain is trying to make second chances out of thin air. In a world that doesn’t give a damn about second chances.

The Throughline: What This Dream Is Really About

Here’s the thesis, if you want one:

I’m just trying to figure out who the hell I was, who I am now, and who I’m supposed to be next. All these versions of me are just circling each other, trying not to crash. Maybe there’s some hope in that, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a mess. But it’s my mess, and I’m stuck with it.
And I don’t trust that any of those versions fully belong anywhere.

The house is my past.
The baseball team? That’s me wanting to matter. Wanting to be seen. Even if it’s just for a minute.
The dogs? That’s my fear. The fear of losing more than I can handle. The fear that the next loss will break me for good.

It’s all the same story. Over and over.

Don’t get caught.
Don’t be forgotten.
Don’t miss your window.
Don’t leave something behind.
Don’t lose anyone else.
Don’t lose yourself.

It’s just grief, trying to make sense of itself. Trying to put the pieces back together.
It’s identity, recalibrating. Or maybe just breaking and hoping nobody notices.
It’s my brain, desperate to create some kind of continuity in a life that keeps falling apart.

The Punchline

I wish the dream had a point. I wish it tied up with a bow, but it doesn’t. It never does.
I wish it ended with some kind of clarity. Or comfort. Or hell, even something that made sense.

But the truth? It’s simpler, and it sucks even more:

I keep dreaming about the house because part of me is still in there.
I keep dreaming about baseball because I want another shot. I want a do-over. Who doesn’t?
I keep dreaming about Charlie because I’m fucking terrified of losing anything else. I don’t know if I can take it. I really don’t.

And maybe, just maybe,
The dream is telling me none of these versions of me are really gone.

They’re just waiting in the next room, hoping I come back for them.