I am in the city of my birth, San Francisco. In what seems to be my neighborhood of Lombard and Leavenworth streets not far from the Art Institute.
I am alone, wandering. I come upon a long stairway that goes downward. Hundreds of concrete stairs. It takes quite a while to reach the bottom. When I do, it's a dead end, with only enough room to turn around and climb up again.
I notice a kitten there, crying in the damp confines, and pick it up. I remember that I had been asking my parents for a cat, but they didn't want one. I decide to take the poor thing home with me and ask them again.
It takes a very long time to reach the street level, and I am feeling nervous about my dad's reaction. Finally, I reach the door to our flat, ring the bell, and someone buzzes me in.
I climb the additional stairs to our place and see my dad waiting for me at the top.
He is smiling. He has a razor blade and a box of band aids in his hands. When I reach him, he says nothing. Just quietly begins to make small cuts in my skin, all over my arms. He then methodically begins covering up the cuts with band aids. Never angry, just smiling gently. Silent.
That's where it ends. I never told my dad about this dream, but I have never forgotten it. My parents were divorced a few months later.
