A Dream:

I close my eyes for a second and find myself standing barefoot on an open field. It’s just before sunrise, the dew glistens like diamonds beneath my feet. Each breath I take is fire to my lungs; so crisp, so fresh... so full of life. “This is what being alive, truly alive, must feel like.”

On an open field, feet bare, cheeks flushed and skin tingling from the cold- my senses are pulsating, they are pumping life into my body. My heart feels like it’s going to burst; like some invisible hand has gripped it tight, I don’t know whether to run or hold my breath and pretend to be frozen stiff. My body wants to break free and join my soul which long heard the song of the morning breeze.

How gracefully my soul dances, something my body can never seem to get right- grace, poise… beauty. With these I am not blessed, not in the world’s standards or perception.

…It’s okay,

My eyes will soon have to open and I’ll find myself back on that stuffy train with the morning traffic packed like sardines, each person looking deader than the next. The monotonous tone of the announcer detached, announcing the next train station before the penguins, in their suits, file out...

..NO!!!

Take me back to my open field.

It is twilight and the sun has slowly, more like sleepily begun its ascend across the sky. Warm rays paint the sky with streaks of mouthwatering peaches and as they caress my face I find myself standing in front of my great grandmother’s coal stove; cheeks dipped in soot-coloured roses. Rain pouring outside, clothes damp, fire’s warmth dancing alluringly on my hands and feet:

Train tracks, mud and corn fields. Dirt and little brown children on mulberry trees.

My great grandmother is sitting around the table. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence; is probably not even aware of my existence. A candle on the table, her Bible on her lap, she neither moves nor blinks; I doubt she’s even alive, although, I can hear another heartbeat that’s not the ticking of the clock. Her spirit seems to touch me lightly on my shoulder; “I am with you don’t worry.” It  says to me.

The door opens

My great grandma stirs. Rain welcomes itself in with no invitation from us. I run to the door, close it and bolt it tight with a rusty screwdriver.

The candle has been blown out.

It is dark and when I open my eyes I am on neither field nor my great grandmother’s kitchen. It is too dark to tell, but I suspect I am lying on my bed.