I had no sooner swatted swatted the bee away than I felt myself tumbling backwards through the air. The ground and the sky tumbled end over end and I stretched out as far as my arms would reach. I flailed my hands about in hopes of grasping something to slow my toppling descent.
And suddenly the tumbling stopped. I hovered inches from the ground, my arms still flailing, yet not so wildly, more rhythmically. I still felt slightly disoriented but stable.
The scent of clover caught my nose and my body tingled, head to toe. As I hovered forward, the smell became sharper. I seemed led to the source, almost involuntarily.
A fantastic forest of giant round leaves and huge white snowballs drew closer. Seconds later, I was standing in the middle of one of the giant white puffs. My legs sank deep. I felt like I was standing in a sack of those tiny foam balls that come out when a carnival prize stuffed animal bursts open.
I reached up and began swinging my arms again, afraid I’d be swallowed by the foam, like so much quicksand. Again, the rhythm. I hovered upwards, the white foam caked to my legs.
Hovering forward again, I smelled perfume. Not floral but distinctly female, fertile, sexual. The aroma became overwhelming as I zoomed forward toward a strange giant building –hundreds of floors with hexagonal windows. People by the hundreds moved about outside, some moving away, but most stepping over each other trying to get to the middle window on the middle floor.
I had to know what was there. I crushed into the crowd, trying to push past others, my still-covered legs impeding my progress. As I finally pushed through to the front, I saw a woman more terrible and beautiful than I could ever envision enthroned in molten gold. Exhausted, I fell to the floor.
I felt my shoulders shaking and opened my eyes. “Dad! You fell off the lawn mower! Are you OK?” My hand was throbbing and I looked down to see a red blotch the size of a grape and a still-pulsing stinger. “Yes, Chris. I guess I’m still allergic. I’m glad you were here.”
A stretch of flowering clover lay ahead of the riding mower –an annoyance but a sure sign of warmer weather to come. I could finish the yard work another day.