The Process of Dreams

I stood outside the house, my hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, staring at the plain, unassuming sign.  This moment.  This was what it was all about for me.  The chill, damp, English air swirled around me and I tried to burrow deeper into my scarf.  Anticipation made my insides spin like a carousel.  I had waited years for this, years full of unfinished thoughts and fledgling wishes.  For me, England was - and is - the stuff dreams are made of.  Rolling green hills, cups of tea, witty authors, impeccable accents, rainy days, and walks in the countryside.  I glanced over at Hannah and her grin mirrored the oh-goodness-we're-actually-here-I-can't-believe-it expression I knew was on my own face.

Almost exactly a year earlier, she and I were sitting on the window seat in our aunt's kitchen in Texas.  We had been talking about wishes and wants and schools in England and writing novels under trees.  Our aunt walked in on the middle of the conversation and wondered what was up, so we filled her in.

"Well, if you go to school in England, we'll come visit you."

Really?  Was it that simple?  If Hannah goes to college in England, we'll visit her?

"We'll talk to Uncle.  I bet we could work it out."

To be honest, I didn't take her words too seriously.  One might say my aunt is known for having ideas on a grand scale; yet somehow, they often manage to work out.  However, I remained skeptical because this involved another country, painfully long flights, and a whopping amount of money. So I dubbed it a charming possibility and mostly forgot about it.  But the next fall, Hannah was, in fact, going to college in England.  There was one wish fulfilled.  Why not another?  So my aunt talked to my uncle and my parents and everyone said yes.

And now here we were, on a cold, wet day in March, standing on the street in front of a modest brick house, just a short jaunt outside of Oxford.  The only remotely coherent thoughts in my head consisted of "Oh God, oh God, thank you."  I couldn't seem to express myself beyond that.  I looked at the sign again.  It was still there.  The sign itself was nothing fancy, just a handful of carved black letters on a weathered grey board.  Eight letters forming two words.  Two words to forever spark my imagination.