I wake up and see there is a 6-foot banana in my bed. I jump from the covers and quickly cross the room to get a better view. Completely yellow, skin intact, sleeping soundly. The banana's chest goes up and down with each breath. My son, just yesterday told me about lucid dreaming where everything seems totally real, and you can control your actions, even though it's a dream. Which means I could tell that banana to GO AWAY. There is a method to find out if you are having a lucid dream or not, something about checking lights and clocks. I run to the light switch and flip it on.

The light works. I think this is bad. It means I am NOT having a lucid dream. I decide to avoid it all and go down for coffee. My husband left for work three hours ago, a 5 a.m. flight I think. I don't know how he does it, on and on, day after day, steady and energetic. The coffee by now is lukewarm. I put in cream, consider the microwave, and realize I have used a hand thrown pottery cup, which is not supposed to go in the microwave.

Slightly depressed, I stare out the window. How will I ever go back up to my room to get dressed if that banana is still there? I really can't stand problems like this. I have no control, no idea what to do, and yet if I try to get help, people will think I'm crazy. They'll call me, well, "Bananas!" I decide I must get creative. My mother told me when I was young that I was creative. I need to tap into that, now. I could paint the banana, so it looked instead like Frida Kahlo in her body cast, in MY bed. That idea pleases me.

My mind is buzzing. What did Kafka do with that insect? Wasn't there a giant insect in somebody's bed? A grasshopper? If only I knew my literary references better I would probably have an immediate answer for this dilemma. I think the powers that be must be testing my intelligence, memory, discipline, faith, and problem solving techniques. Then there was a Japanese book about a banana. Or maybe the author's name was Banana. Why can't I remember anything useful? I remember liking the feeling of that Japanese book, something about healing or death. That, maybe is the key: feeling. How can I respond if I don't really know the answer to how I'm feeling?

I could forget the analysis and just tackle the thing --ride it, eat it, peel it, make a split of it. It all sounds very sexual and sweaty. Could this have something to do with a potassium metaphor? Confusion reigns.

I go to the basement, find some clean clothes, wash my face in the laundry sink, and head out the door for a long walk. My bedroom remains untouched. The banana will have endless quiet.

On the walk I sense how fresh the air is. Small purple and yellow crocuses dot the neighborhood. A sprig of quince, birds mingled with airplanes. I'm breathing freely now and instead of analyzing my life, I decide to go to my favorite coffee shop for an éclair, a holdover from childhood, when my mother used a pastry bag. Does anybody else order these éclairs? Or is it only me? The people sitting outside at the café tables stare down into books and computers. They are all perfectly nice looking, well-dressed. A dog or a bike along the edges. Life is civil. No bananas.

I get the last éclair, the inside so cold and creamy I think I am in heaven. Of course, I have nothing to read and all that's left of the daily newspaper are the classifieds on a corner table. A greedy woman grabs them before I can get there.

Rain threatens, all the more reason to NOT go back home. There must be a store I can walk to. I run across traffic to the musty antique place. The owner irritates me. He talks non-stop and won't bargain with anyone. I only go in under unusual circumstances, like banana avoidance.

I walk past brown mirrors webbed with stains and see my face looking back. Pinched. Alright, it's time to face up to the banana. Perhaps the banana is just a straight old unsubtle metaphor sent to me by the fruit god of the universe. I could pretend it means it's time to visit a tropical island, or that I should have been a fruit bat, but really I can see it all so clearly. It has to do with all my faults. My laziness. The way I don't challenge myself on things and fall back on old bad patterns when I shouldn't. It's just as if I were all wrapped up in a giant, waterproof, safe, heavy duty, deflective yellow sheathing. I look all bright and neat, but inside I'm hiding in mush. Clever, really, whoever thought this one up.

Or it could be, plain and simple, insanity. Bansanity. Bananinsanity. Banana sanity?

Either way, I HAVE to have a discussion with the banana. We need to talk.

I hurry past Bud and out the door into the drizzle. The walk home feels forbidding. Inside the front door, I stop and listen. Do I hear banana breathing?

Nothing. Slowly I advance up the steps, my knees all stringy. Perhaps the phone will ring. Telepathically I send messages to all my friends to call immediately. Silence. I creep around the corner. My bed is….

Empty. But there is a large banana shaped imprint. Yes, right there on the mattress. While I do feel relief, I also feel a twinge of disappointment. We might have gotten along, the banana and I. I wander back downstairs, a little lost, feeling an emptiness like hunger. Who can I talk to now?

I will do something today, something to make myself a better person. Next time, the banana won't leave me.