I was a child in my most recent dream. Everything towered above me. I had trouble reaching the tall table upon which a woman was preparing food. I can only assume she was my caretaker of some sort, as she scolded me and assured me that supper would be ready soon, so I could stand to wait a bit longer.
My child self was put out by this response and pouted, to which the woman smiled affectionately and sent me outside to fetch my father.
Time seemed to pass suddenly and I was slightly older, though still very much a child. I was concentrating hard, my hands making small gestures and my lips forming words. I grew more and more frustrated as nothing happened, but then — the small cut of fabric in front of me changed from dull grey to a bright shade of green.
I beamed, feeling accomplished, and rushed out to tell my mother of my success. When I demonstrated, she was very impressed and proud.
As I woke that morning from my dream, a small feeling of being cared for lingered. Somewhere, somewhen, I had a family that had treated me as families should treat their children. At least some incarnation of myself had been raised well.