LAND OF sunflowers, golden wheat fields, occasional roads of brick (though none yellow as far as I could see), and the more-than-occasional tornado. Tornados were specifically on my mind that sunny but cool California Central Coast Saturday morning in July, since I’d just awakened from a dream featuring one. It was a large, menacing dust devil with blue-gray eyes at its widest part. Eyes that followed my every move like those crazy Mona Lisa paintings in slapstick horror movies. The bed sagged on one side. A large hand enveloped my shoulder and gently shook it. I woke up and stared into eyes the same steel-blue as those in my dream. They gazed back at me in concern. “Benni, sweetheart, are you okay?” Gabe asked. “You were whimpering in your sleep.” “What color did you say your mom’s eyes were?” I asked, blinking rapidly. “Kind of grayish-blue. Like mine. Why?” “No reason.” I didn’t believe in prophetic dreams. Really I didn’t. As he nuzzled my neck with his scratchy mustache, I tried to forget the image and just enjoy his warm lips tracing my collarbone.
