Dream: Several black and white prints, 8x10 and larger, rolled up

I recall I had been carrying them somewhere. Later, at home, Mom had folded and creased the photos, and they had wound up in a pile of trash. As a teen-aged version of myself, I was cleaning out an overstuffed mail box when I discovered this, and started throwing dozens of back copies of my sisters' "teen magazine" and other droll toward her, yelling that at least we could be sure to preserve these "bits of history." I was being sarcastic, of course.

Mom was frightened, and apologized for damaging the pictures, but didn't seem to grasp the sense of their importance. Waking, neither do I. I don't recall what images were on them, except one of a white cat (Cotton, perhaps).

Oddly, the prints were smaller now, like 5x7s. Perhaps that means that I was attributing too much importance to them in the beginning? Were they significant for their value, their artistic or historic significance, or merely the emotion I had invested in them?

I should note that such carelessness with anything of value to me wasn't a behavior my mother ever displayed. That was much more likely of my father and oldest sister, who destroyed many of my collectibles and personal keepsakes. I admit, I was a messy kid, but they both adopted something of a scorched earth policy when it came to cleaning. While some of the things they trashed would have eventually been of moderate economic value, the one loss that sticks with me is a letter from my closest friend, sent days after he moved away. His name was Matthew Starling. We were like brothers; so in tune with one another that we frequently said exactly the same things, at exactly the same time. We lost touch, because his new address and phone number were in that letter. I'm sure he thought I didn't care enough to write him back. Nothing could be further from the truth. I dug through the trash trying to find that letter, but couldn't. My heart broke. I was about 10 at the time, and think about that loss often.

Back to the dream: Before the enraged magazine tossing, or after (I cannot recall now), I was old, sitting in Sunny's oversized recliner trying simultaneously to read a book in my left hand, and to watch a TV to the right. I am confident in this symbolism: whatever it was on TV was important and immediate. The book, however, represented my desires. The book lost out. Very much what I'm feeling these days.