I like that I sleep on a bed with a green blanket. The design is simple: funky swirls, circles, round, lime and dark. But the metal bars hurt my back when I lean against them to read, or write. At night, as I sleep, turning my body, my feet touch the bars and I feel caged in. I want to break free, but my feet don’t move, I am bounded. This happens often in the night, tossing, turning.
I fall. At last. And there is just darkness, a tunnel in which the subconscious lies. I dream about a boy who holds me. I do not know his name, but he looks familiar, like we’ve met before in another time. The car moves, and she turns her head, looking at us, nodding approval, smiling, sweet and candid. He continues to play with my hair. I am wrapped around him, warm, like how I am wrapped in my blanket. The driver, she doesn’t look back. She drives without words. How peaceful I feel, wrapped in his warmness, and filled with tranquility, still touched by her repeating smile.
Morning. I remember us, and how she smiled like she was happy. But the other one, she had said nothing. My mother had said nothing the whole time, but drove on, somewhere else. She was not ours.