Dreaming. I lay upon my back upon the small piece of grass in front of my duplex home in the f section and stare above. Above me- the clouds move. Just watching the movement of the clouds- cotton balls that I always dreamed I could walk on. My younger self- stared up wishing to walk upon the clouds even though I was told I would fall through. That the clouds would not hold my weight even as a small child. But somehow I thought if I ever got that high I could walk, walk upon those large drifty cotton balls. Cotton balls of cotton candy pinkish sometimes when the sun is drifting away. I dream of jumping between the clouds not falling through. Where to. I didn’t know. Then or now.
I still find my self looking up at the clouds. Today. And stopping and watching the quickness of the changing canvas along the blue. I alert the kids to the good clouds ahead while driving up and down the hills to our next destination. At the stop light, I say I have always wished I could go up to the clouds. K responds, you can you just need the right ladder. Dreaming.
Dreaming. I used to dream there were witches under my bed. And in my closet. So often that I couldn’t sleep in my bubble gum ice cream pink smeared room. Pink everywhere upon my request. Then. I couldn’t sleep and found refugee down the long hallway in between the two parts of me- my mother and father. Darkness around me. I thought. But the nightlight never forgotten to be put on by him or her after my reading. I found them each time.
Dreaming. Of witches. My witches dream. Became a problem. They kept coming. And my father did what he could to bring me comfort. In my closet- one of the locations where they would come in my dreams. He built the safety of a picture window only a father could. In it was a picture of trees and sun and clouds. Drawn by him in pencil and then in color. Lined in the only color I thought should exist pink, pink window panes. He pulled down the string of the light he had lengthened so my five year old hands could reach.
And there was my very own picture window. My own blanket. My own safety. From the witches. See Katie he said you don’t have to be scared anymore. My picture window. A picture window from my father. Was the only thing that kept me from the witches in my dreams. And got me to dream. Again. In my own bed. In my own room. Light on in the closet. So I could keep the window. In my view.
I still find my self looking up at the clouds. Today. And stopping and watching the quickness of the changing canvas along the blue. I alert the kids to the good clouds ahead while driving up and down the hills to our next destination. At the stop light, I say I have always wished I could go up to the clouds. K responds, you can you just need the right ladder. Dreaming.
Dreaming. I used to dream there were witches under my bed. And in my closet. So often that I couldn’t sleep in my bubble gum ice cream pink smeared room. Pink everywhere upon my request. Then. I couldn’t sleep and found refugee down the long hallway in between the two parts of me- my mother and father. Darkness around me. I thought. But the nightlight never forgotten to be put on by him or her after my reading. I found them each time.
Dreaming. Of witches. My witches dream. Became a problem. They kept coming. And my father did what he could to bring me comfort. In my closet- one of the locations where they would come in my dreams. He built the safety of a picture window only a father could. In it was a picture of trees and sun and clouds. Drawn by him in pencil and then in color. Lined in the only color I thought should exist pink, pink window panes. He pulled down the string of the light he had lengthened so my five year old hands could reach.
And there was my very own picture window. My own blanket. My own safety. From the witches. See Katie he said you don’t have to be scared anymore. My picture window. A picture window from my father. Was the only thing that kept me from the witches in my dreams. And got me to dream. Again. In my own bed. In my own room. Light on in the closet. So I could keep the window. In my view.
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