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Julia McCahill lives and writes in Annapolis, Maryland, going “every day to the place where myth, dream, and art come together.”
The phone wakes me during the night. I rush to answer it because I have just been dreaming of Dad and imagine the call might be about him. It’s a wrong number, but I’m not annoyed. Catching a dream of Dad is like catching a rare, prize fish. The unconscious has goofed and let me see something it usually hides.
July 1988Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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