Dreams Are Real

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Dreams are real—
but not like
the weight of carabao hooves
pressing into wet earth,
not like the rattle
of old keys in your lola’s palm
as she opens
the prayer room
no one enters now.

They are real
the way a spoon remembers
the warmth of rice porridge,
the way a name echoes
in the silence after
a song your father
once hummed
when the electricity
was out.

They come to you
in fragments:
your childhood dog,
a fish leaping
from a tin basin,
the girl you almost loved
holding a salt lamp
in a dark corridor
you’ve never walked.

Sometimes, a joke
slips in—
a pun so stupid
you wake up laughing.
Sometimes, it’s a mango
on your desk,
yellowing with sorrow
you didn’t know
you were still holding.

A dream asks for nothing
but permission—
to return.
It wears
your old fears like
a shawl,
steps barefoot
across the room
where your mother
used to wait for you
with silence
and champorado.

You let it in
because even now
you hope it brings
the version of yourself
that might have said
yes—
or stayed.