Thursday, May 28, 2015
The Cat, The Boy, The Dream
My covers are chocolate brown, with a hit of rose. They cover my shoulders and my feet. If I put them over my head I don't see the lights of the cars that drive by on the street outside. I can form pictures under the lids of my closed eyes. They begin a lullaby of sight, and I lose control of the night. It's this loss of control that terrifies me some nights. I'm too terrified of my dreams to sleep and yet I am too tired not to close my eyes.
I close my eyes and toss and turn
All of a sudden a little boy is before me, his hands held out palms up asking only for the love a child asks for weeks before his love goes sour. He is begging for his parents back. I am a counsellor in his half-way house of dreams.
I watch as one mother comes back feeling guilty about what she left behind, although with no idea of how to fix it, without the means or will to take him back. I watch as they stare each other down too afraid too love, too afraid to hate, this is the moment the little boys eyes turn black and he starts writing a future of torture and pain.
The mothers tea she finished in the car, she finished to give her strength, her pregnant belly not allowing her to have coffee. Her tea still on her breath, the tea he says he can smell for weeks, though we do not keep tea or coffee in this house... Where is the tea? he would ask who is drinking the teas? Is my mother here? did she bring the baby? My brother, my sister?
I wake up at 4 am. I lift the cat up by the stomach, four feet hanging down facing the ground like a toy, a toy I hold so carefully. She too is half asleep. I take her to my bed and insist she stay with me; keep my safe from the night, as if I have any say in where my cat stays or goes inside these walls.