I'm the antithesis of my mother's prayers. She begs God for a square but I have no corners; I'm a circle. Her womb housed me. Her pain bore me. Her body nourished me. This inseparable bond now relegated to irregular Starbucks conversations...a neutral spot, a place to meet a blind date, a location for a business meeting or where you lay claim to the next victim of your pyramid scheme. We HAVE to meet here because of who I am. Abnormal encounters for a mother and a son.
In a conversational soup of tears, small talk, probing questions, disbelief, anger, and concern something tries to break through. It desperately cries out, "I'm still here. I am! Can you see me?!" That thing, the only thing really...Love. But social fabrications, failures, worldviews, distance and a myriad of other... who knows what - gags its voice. Love stands behind sound proof glass, hands pressed firmly against the window, eyes wide (like the freaky Precious Moment figurines) longing to be on the other side.
But that's why we dream. Love is free in dreams. No one can say, "You can't dream that!" You can't even say that of your own dreams. I texted these words to my mother the next morning:
Had a dream last night. It was you and me sitting at table for two at a restaurant kind of like Dukes in Malibu. We were sitting next to the window. My feet were resting on the sides of your chair. You had your hands on my ankles. The whole table and chairs were kind of swaying. We were talking. It was nice.
Perhaps dreams are alternative universes of better realities.
Or...
Perhaps dreams are truth.
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