My mother was 20 again. She was curvy and thin, and her round face was beaming. We were dressed as flappers and performing at a VFW hall. We spun and clapped and kicked our legs in the air like pinwheels. We danced together, dimple to dimple, hand in hand. My father lay in a bed in the back, his eyes, smile, and nails yellow with jaundice. Dying of liver failure, he said, "It's just a stone, they say. My heart is stone, and they can't remove it on account of the holes in my liver." But despite the pain, he grinned, proud of his girls. The show was over and I left the stage. In my dressing room, my costume dropped from my shoulders to my feet. I turned with my back towards the floor length mirror. My legs where long and willowy and pale, and the backs of my thighs were covered in bright, vivid tattoos of lilies and orchids. I smiled wide and sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest. My tattoos reminded me of chastity, and I felt fresh and pure like the flowers. It was a time where hugging oneself didn't feel pathetic and lonely, but actually comforting as it's meant to. Even with my newly adult mother and dying 81 year old father, I felt so good and peaceful.

That was one of the more peculiar dreams I've had as of late.

My picks for best albums of 2006 thus far, along with corresponding songs.
The Mountain Goats' "Get Lonely" on The Fabulist.