Do we dream in a coma?

Do we dream in a coma?

The dirt path moves in front of me like a treadmill. I keep moving, but it feels like I’m going nowhere. White crystals crunch underfoot. The euphonic sound of folk music faintly touches my ears. I know I’m close now. The path twists and turns. It seems as if it will never end, but I know what lies ahead. At last the scenic trail ends and the gates to the village approach me. Massive icicles hang off the sparkling twelve-foot iron gateway. Cautiously walking under it, I step into the village. I pass the homes and shops. Wandering through the village, as I take it all in. I see the snow-covered awnings of century-old storefronts; the street performers kindly accepting donations; swarms of children running about in their winter clothes. All the wonders of this place, all of them here, all so normal, but so extraordinary in the same moment. Magical almost. I remember my father telling me that the town is designed to be a spiral, so that no street would be neglected. I journey farther into the town. At this time every year the village has an enchanting festival. There is singing, dancing, music, and delectable foods. The festival goes on for a week. The village gives off a warm feeling, a sense of carefree joy. An old lady that I want to call grandma gives me a Spekloqa: a special pastry made only at this time of year. It is best explained as a cross between a croissant and a pretzel. The most defining thing about them is not how tasty they are, but how they never lose their heat. Biting into one brings back memories of coming here with my parents. It’s just as I remember: the shops, the food, the people. It’s the same. The village that never ages. Before I know it, the festival is almost over. The booms of fireworks overhead catch me by surprise. The fierce reds, the golden yellows, the astral blues, and the magical greens light up the midnight sky like nothing I’ve ever seen. Just as suddenly as it started, it ended. I could fall asleep here on this bench. In infinite bliss I could lie here. I’ll just take a quick nap then walk home. Just a quick nap…

“Hello, is this Ms. Diane Hammond?”

“Yes, what do you want? It’s three in the morning and I have to get up in a few hours.”

“It’s the hospice, your father… his brain activity ceased fifteen minutes ago. He’s passed away. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

“...”

“Ms. Hammond?”

“Do you need me there?”

“Well there is paperwork, but if you need time…”

“I’ll be right there.”

“I really am sorry for yo-”

“Do they dream?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you dream in a coma?”

“I’m just a nurse I don’t kn-”

“I hope he dreamt. He used to tell me stories of a town he went to when he was a kid. It was the spark in his eyes. It was his life. It was all he ever wanted, to be in that village, sitting on that bench like he was four again. It was all he ever wanted.”