Dream Inspired

My mother loved lavender; she hoarded lavender soap, sprigs, that specific shade of purple sprinkled throughout our home. Seeing the artfully arranged lavender atop the casket shattered my family. I took the simple bouquet home, and cared for it. But like everything in this fragile world, it eventually died. Extended family stopped visiting and my dad stopped crying. My sister, who shared the same golden hair as mom, moved back into her cramped apartment. But I couldn’t move on. My dreams wouldn’t let me.

My high school alarm clock obnoxiously squawked at me. The hinges on my door creaked open as my mom poked her head in. I could see her lips move, but I couldn’t hear her voice. I always start out confused, but by the end of the seemingly endless sequence, I’m sobbing. I just want to hear her voice. I can’t remember her voice anymore except through bits of video from my childhood. 

The dream changes and I’m at the scene of the accident again. The sun sets rapidly and it's dark, just like it was that night. I hear the cars crash behind me, but when I turn I see only a doe and her fawn. The graceful steps of the mother mirrored by the awkward and disjointed ones of the little deer. I reach out for them, my hand unnaturally pale, but a light catches my eye. I lift my head, but I feel my muscles tensing. The pressure in the air changes, and my ears pop. My point of view changes as I watch a car barrel into the unsuspecting deer. A harsh gasp pushes out of my mouth, and the tears itch my face.

The dream ripples, and I’m seated at my grandmother's mahogany dining table. Surrounding the table isn’t her tacky dining room, but a forest. I hear an owl’s call, and the erie rustling of plant life under hooves. My mother is smiling, standing at the head of the table, and carving a large thanksgiving turkey. The knife in her elegant hand is sharper than necessary. I hear the faint noises of my sister chattering with my dad. My vision is blurry and incoherent. I begin to shiver as the temperature in the room drops. The harsh thud startles me to clarity. The knife is suddenly buried, not in the turkey, but the vintage wood of the table. But the person holding the knife isn’t my mom anymore. The face morphs into the twisted face of the other driver. A bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand spilling as his body contours from the impact of the wreck. My iron hot anger is stifled by my consciousness as it rolled restlessly.

A scarlet door appears in front of me. My hand, back to its usual tan shade, hesitates to reach and open the door. The hinges silently propel it open to reveal a lush garden. The weight of my leaden feet, heavy as I shuffle across the threshold, lighten under the sunlight. The trees are so tall I follow the trucks but lose the leaves to the vibrant sky. The opalescent flowers are organized perfectly around a marble fountain: the kind my mom gushed about from Rome. The soothing water flows off the smooth marble calming my racing heart. A familiar melody catches my ear. It was the Beatles: my parents favorite band. I was barefoot in the soft mossy grass, pursuing the music. 

The garden morphs into a hedge maze, and as I reach the middle of it, I see a tea party. A white wrought iron table and chairs, with a delicate pastel yellow umbrella perched in the center. The tea cups, from my set as a little girl, are still slightly chipped. My mother is seated in one of the chairs reading some cheesy romance novel, as she liked to do. I watched myself sprint to her. I watched us hug, crying and laughing at the reunion. And when I finally sat down, I saw through my own eyes again, and I hear her voice.

 "I can see myself and my life through the minds of the people who loved me. It can be painful but it can be so wonderful. I’ve received justice. Rest easy, my darling.” 

And for once, I woke up with a sense of peace.

Authors Note: Throughout this unit, we have been using dreams as inspiration. Honestly, I don't remember my dreams very often, but I wish I did. The biggest inspiration for this piece came from my love of horror movies and my new obsession with gardening. One last thing: thank you so much, Kambria, for editing this and helping me expression my thoughts.