Dreaming of Neverland
J.M. Barrie's PETER PAN** E very once in a while, I wake from a dream and remember the strange place I have been visiting. It is only familiar in those vaporous moments between sleep and wakefulness. A peculiar house is there with white peeling paint, a spiral staircase that leads up to a room with walls made of glass, and views of the island in every direction. I remember in that moment that I have been there before. I remember Neverland. If I were still a child, I would know better than to rub the sleep from my eyes. It breaks the magic of memory. The only way to return (if only in my dreams) is after a childlike day – perhaps spent at Disneyland, wearing mouse ears and eating cotton candy – or building living room forts with my children. It absolutely cannot return unless licorice has been consumed and something odd has been worn as a hat. But grownups like me forget the important things so easily. We ...