Explore my new Dreams Analogy about my late brother’s protective presence, the grit of a ‘maintenance call’ from the beyond, and the
spiritual search for the perfect shade of white paint to heal the scars of the past.
Written by Dennis Harvell
Dreams Anthology: Maintenance
From Above
The Breach
The smell of ozone and singed fabric hit me before I was even awake. It wasn’t a roar; it was a rhythmic, high-altitude hiss, like a secret being whispered at the top of the walls. The ceiling was alive. A crown of orange light licked the molding, turning the white plaster into a landscape of flickering shadows.
Then, the door “popped.” Not a kick, but a deliberate entry.
In walked my brother, Rodney. My Bronx Hero. He didn’t wear a cape; he wore the quiet, practiced authority of a man who knew how to handle a crisis before the smoke could settle into the marrow of the house. He looked just as he did in 2008—steady, focused, and entirely unimpressed by the danger.
The Ledge
The fire had claimed the curtains, a burning barrier between my inner sanctum and the world outside. My brother didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the fabric, muscles tensing with a grit I remembered from the city blocks of our youth.
When the angle wasn’t right, he didn’t retreat. He vaulted through the window, anchoring himself to the narrow stone ledge many stories above the pavement. I watched, heart hammering, as he hung over the void, yanking at the burning tapestry with the force of a man reclaiming his own territory. There was a sharp, metallic SNAP—the sound of the rod giving way—and then the heavy, rhythmic THUD as he landed back inside, the threat neutralized beneath his feet.
The Restoration
The fire was dead, but the soot remained—ugly, black scars streaking across the ceiling like ink on a clean page. The air was thick with the scent of “uninvited guest,” a lingering heat that pressed against my chest.
Rodney didn’t leave. He stood there, already calculating the repair with the eye of a master craftsman.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice a calm anchor in the cooling room. “I’ll find a paint that matches. I’ll fix the damage.”
I looked at the soot, my mind racing to the technicalities. “We have to be careful,” I told him. “White doesn’t always look like white. If the shade is off, we’ll always know the fire was here.”
Rodney just nodded. He wasn’t just looking for a quick fix; he was looking for the exact shade of my peace. He was promising me that by morning, the walls of my life would look as though the fire had never happened.