Dreams They Carried

Monologue: "Dreams They Carried"

(A dimly lit Dreams They Carried. A single spotlight shines on a person seated in an old armchair. They hold a small photo album, occasionally glancing at it as they speak.)

You ever wonder what your parents dreamed about? Not the everyday stuff—paying bills, putting food on the table—but the real dreams. The ones they whispered to themselves when the house was quiet. When no one was watching.

I think about that sometimes. My father, sitting at the edge of his bed after a long day, the lines on his face like the folds of a map. Did he dream of places he never got to go? Or was he too tired to dream at all? 

And my mother—her hands always busy, cooking, cleaning, mending. Did she dream of something bigger? Or maybe something simpler, like a moment to just... be?

I never asked. Isn’t that strange? We spend so much time in their shadow, but we never think to ask, What did you want? What did you hope for?

(Slowly rises, pacing.)

Langston Hughes wrote about what happens to a dream deferred. Does it dry up? Fester? Explode? But what if it just... fades? What if it gets folded up and tucked away, like a love letter never sent? Did they pull out those dreams now and then, unfold them, and let the light hit the words? Or did they let them crumble into dust, convinced there wasn’t enough time or space in the world for them?

(A pause. Picks up the photo album, flipping through pages.)

Looking at them now, in these old pictures, I wonder—did they reconcile their dreams with the reality they lived? Did they find peace in the life they built, or did they lie awake at night thinking about what could have been? Were they satisfied? Did they find enough moments of joy to balance the scales?

I like to think they did. Maybe not all the time, but enough. Maybe they looked at me and saw a piece of their dream walking around, breathing, living. Maybe that was enough for them. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe their satisfaction wasn’t about what they achieved, but about the hope they passed on. The hope that I might dream bigger, live freer, reach higher.

(Sits down again, voice softening.)

And now here I am, wondering if I’ll ever reconcile my own dreams. I feel like I owe it to them—to at least try. To honor the dreams they carried, whether they fulfilled them or not. Because even the dreams deferred, the ones that never bloomed—they were still beautiful. They still mattered.

(A long pause. Looks directly at the audience.)

So maybe the question isn’t what happens to a dream deferred. Maybe the question is—what do we do with the dreams they left behind?

(Lights fade to black.)

This monologue explores the emotional weight of unspoken dreams, the legacy of hope passed down, and the introspection in their own life.