in the shadow of a dream

    A crow cawed from among the reddening leaves of a tree, twisting his head to peer down at the modest house below him. Snow fell silently in Atkin’s Corner and buried a soccer ball that lay abandoned in the front yard. There were no decorations on the steps of the house, but warm light streamed through the windows—and the glow reflected in the bird’s eye.

  The scene inside was far quieter than the festivities in Conway, but it was a joyful calmness. Boxes were stacked in the corners of rooms, not yet unpacked. Curtains hadn’t been hung in the windows, and the furniture was scant—only a couch, a table, and a chair here and there.

    Flour dusted the kitchen table, where a rolling pin was inching toward the edge. A boy with dark curly hair reached for it, catching it seconds before it tumbled to the floor. He set it back where it belonged, next to a lump of dough, and wiped his hands on his gingham apron.

    “You caught that just in the nick of time, Sam!” The man sitting at the end of the table peered over the cookbook he held and grinned.

   Sam returned his father's smile.

   His grandmother entered the room, stirring a bowl of filling. Her silver hair was twisted back in a bun, and a streak of flour dusted her cheek. “How are things going in here?”

    “Just perfect.” Henry winked at Sam. “Are you ready for the next ingredient? Two cups sugar—“

    “Two cups sugar? Nonsense, let me see that.” Mrs. Gower set down her bowl and reached for the cookbook. Her finger moved down the list of ingredients, then stopped. “Aha! Just as I thought. Half a cup of sugar, not two.”

  “I was just testing your memory.” Henry’s eyes sparkled. While his mother was distracted with measuring the sugar, he dipped a finger in the bowl of pumpkin filling and tasted it.

    Sam copied him, and his nose wrinkled. It definitely needed that sugar.

    “My memory is just fine.” Mrs. Gower arched an eyebrow at Henry. She turned back to her bowl to add the sugar, just in time to catch Sam going in for a second taste. “You little rascal!”

    Sam froze and fought the instinct to cower. His gaze was lowering when he noticed that Mrs. Gower was smiling at him. It was a kind smile, with no cold meaning behind her eyes.

​

    “If you’re going to sneak some, you could at least have the decency to tell me how it tastes.” Mrs. Gower sounded like she was teasing. There wasn’t a hint of hardness in her voice. “We need an expert opinion here, and your father isn’t reliable.”

    Sam swallowed hard. The hiding place in his mind was calling, promising him safety. But he didn’t want to go to it, not just then.

    When he spoke, his voice was small. “I like it.”

    “Well, if you like it, that’s good enough for me.” Mrs. Gower ruffled his hair and returned to the stove to check on the gravy.

    Sam stared after her. Was that all it took to make her happy?

​

    He remembered a time when a kind lady with a smile just like his grandmother’s had visited him. These memories were only wishful thinking; his mother had assured him of that. Why did they seem so real? Maybe this was a dream too.

    Henry closed the book he was holding and glanced at the clock. “We’d better get back to work. Do you want me to show you how to roll it out?”

    “I can figure it out on my own.” Sam frowned and set the rolling pin down on the lump of dough.

​

    You can’t trust them, Sam.

    He pushed harder, and the dough gave way beneath his frustration. It was thinning out, but unevenly, and stretching in a lopsided shape. He stopped, and hesitantly looked at his father. “Ok, can you show me?”

    Henry stood up and came around the table, then took the rolling pin from Sam. He moved in smooth motions, whistling as he worked. Soon the dough was a nearly perfect circle.

    Sam studied his father. He wasn’t scary in the least. In fact, he was calm, and that was comforting.

    Henry had been in Sam’s memories too, and he hadn’t been angry. Sam tried to remind himself he was wrong. Real as they were, they couldn’t be true. Could they? His mother had told him they were only daydreams he’d invented to try and forget the painful past. The only pain he remembered was leaving, without the chance to say goodbye.

​

    Mrs. Gower returned with a pie pan, and together, she and Henry transferred the crust to it. They tore a hole in it in the process, but Henry patched it with a piece trimmed from the edge, and soon you couldn’t see where the mistake had been.

    “Would you like to pour the batter in?” She held the bowl out to Sam.

    He nodded and took it from her. Mrs. Gower hovered around him as he tipped it forward, but he didn’t spill a drop. The pumpkin filling rose until it was half an inch from the top of the pan.

    Sam dipped his head and scrutinized it. “It looks like a pie now!”

    “Yes, it does.” Mrs. Gower smiled and carried it to the oven. Once it was inside, she returned with a dishtowel. “Time to clean up.”

    “Sam began wiping the table, his eyebrows furrowing as he scrubbed at a stuck piece of dough. Then he made a wide arc and the last of the flour was swept away. Henry dried the table, and, satisfied with their work, the three moved to the living room.

    “We deserve a little break after all our hard work.” Mrs. Gower sank onto a chair in the corner of the room with a sigh. “What a wonderful day.”

    Henry settled on the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Sam looked around, then slowly moved to sit next to his father. He tucked his feet under him and closed his eyes. His father’s sleeve brushed against him, and it smelled of wood chips. Sam remembered that too. His eyes shot open.

    “This is the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had,” Henry said with conviction.

    Sam chanced a glance at him. Were those tears that he was blinking away? Henry caught him looking and nudged his shoulder with a friendly smile.

    The day would end—and as all dreams must come to an end, Sam knew this moment would too. But he would treasure the memory, and he knew that this time, no one could take it away.