I am not a believer in the symbolism of dreams. However, I am an eye-witness of the power of images. I encountered one yesterday that repeated itself at night while I slept. And this, in turn, has affected the way I perceive things. Follow along with me while I explain.

I had left the train and was walking home when I saw them. Two boys, probably 4 and 5 years of age, were out on a curb playing with a bottle. Tossing it up in the air, they screeched with joy as it shattered repeatedly on the ground. And each time picking up the jagged pieces that remained and tossing them again. No guardian in sight, they prepared their hands for blood-drenched cuts and scars.

I was appalled. Having once been responsible for a set of children I could not believe that someone was allowing this potential violence to mix with their joy.

Keeping a safe distance I tried to say something to them but it seemed that they either didn’t hear or care, or perhaps we didn’t speak the same language. And no possible adult anywhere. I paused to make sure that the worst, in my opinion, had passed before I moved on. This image followed me home.

We met again that night as I slept, only this time the boys had become my own responsibility, adopted or abandoned they somehow lived with me. It took me a while to set my pace with the job of parenting, but before the night was through the boys and I had formed a family. And then they found that goddamned bottle.

The game began before I realized what was happening. By the second crash, however, I was on them. Angry and fierce for fear of harm. And they responded with righteous protests and tears. Why not enjoy the bottle and the pleasing sounds of shattering. We know nothing of this danger you fear. How can you be so cruel?

By the time I awoke I could not balance the scales. And now I do not know what to prefer: the innocence or the experience.