Chapter Text
Some days when I wake up, my mind believes it belongs to a different body.
It’s an odd sentiment to feel so certain that you are foreign in your own skin. But when I feel that way, every cell in my body seems to scream at me that I am correct, that I’m not crazy. And anything I do only seems to add to that sureness.
There’s a sense that “Yes, this is what you’re supposed to be doing, but you’re supposed to do it MORE.” I feel it in everything that even remotely connects me to others.
Another thing that makes it even worse is the way the feeling only ever comes on the days I dream.
In some dreams, I see myself, though it’s difficult with the iridescent light that seems to pour out of her; like a mask for her eyes, sprouting like a diamond in her chest and crowning her halo of light.
She looks a little different from me, whereas I can only change my appearance through outfits and hats, her changes are made by swapping appendages. First, she’ll have a third eye on the center of her forehead. Then, she’ll proudly sport a regal unicorn horn while the next, she has a pair of dog ears. She always tries talking to me, but I can’t understand her speech, just that she seems to care.
Sometimes in those dreams, I see my image in a body too big to be a human, able to tower over my frame tenfold. Then suddenly, I am the giant, peering into a tiny world cradled in the palm of my hand, watching over people the size of ants go about their lives.
The dreams get a little weird when I am in a body that isn’t human. They happen on much fewer occasions, but they are enjoyable dreams. In them, I grow big and small at the drop of a hat. I can prance through a meadow on cloven hooves and snack on berries. I can hop around in the grass of an open field nibbling on clovers. Or I can zip from flower to flower drinking nectar using my itty-bitty wings.
In other dreams, there are wings on my back where the islanders who perceive me describe rectangular cases of darkness. The wings are massive, powerful enough to keep me soaring beyond the clouds, and beautiful, catching the light like a sun catcher.
But my favorite type of dream that I have are those of a boy.
In the dreams, the boy’s age varies from scene to scene. At his youngest appearance, he is just a wee babe and the most precious sight, wrapped in white cloth that brings out his soft blue wisps of hair and gummy smile. His entire body fits comfortably in the crook of my arm, like it was the natural way of things. He attempts to bite my fingers but without teeth, he can only nip my fingertips as I gently rock him from side-to-side. Nonetheless, I can’t help but smile at him as the happy gurgles of a baby fill my ears.
Another age he appears in is as a little boy, clutching the hem of my stola or calling for my attention ahead of me. Now dressed in his own garbs, he wears a pristine toga, unless the moment is after he’s begun digging through the earth for rocks, insects, and anything else that catches his eye. Afterwards, he is covered in dirt and grime at which a mischievous smile splits his face and he runs away before he can be cleaned.
These are the circumstances of her most treasured dream where it begins with her laying on the grass while the boy roamed. After having an adventure through a flower field, he returned to her bearing gifts, those gifts being a mountain of colorful flowers he carried back using the skirt of his toga as a basket.
Then, in his excitement to share his findings, he trips on a tree trunk and crashes, petals flying everywhere.
After a beat of silence, the two erupt in laughter and collect the flowers, weaving them into crowns to place atop the other’s head. Despite the dirt gathered on our skirts and buried in our nails, I was nothing joyful but the situation.
However, it’s when the boy in her dreams is older do the issues starts. Because upsettingly, she is quickest to forget her dreams when the blue-haired boy isn’t so boy-ish. He is tall, almost as much as she is but youth still pours from his every action. The rest of his features, like his frame, build, and face are lost to her.
The most that she’s managed to recall of these dreams are three snippets. In the first, she is scolding him. Well, perhaps scolding isn’t quite right...no, she is warning him! Something about not doing bad things and watching his back. The second is of them saying goodbye as he heads off to work. Last but not least, in the third, he is pulling her along excitedly, taking her to the site of a large build that she feels to be beautiful, but the details of it escape her memory.
However, the thing that is most frustrating of all is the way any hint of the boy’s features slips from her mind like sand.
She is having another frustrating episode of this need to remember more but failing to make any progress. Tears begin building in the corner of her eyes but he won’t turn around, already done with his goodbyes. But if he leaves now then she cannot reach her son and-
“Are you okay, Mama?” A squeaky voice asks, pulling her from her dream.
She fights back her visceral reaction to the title, confused by her own reaction. No, not ‘Mama’, I’m ‘Mom,’ ‘Mother,’ ‘Madre!’
Katie looks around, suddenly aware that she was with Nacho, who she is ‘Mama’ to. Who she had taken an afternoon nap with after spending the day together.
Shaking it off, she rubs the top of the egg’s shell still expecting to feel soft wisps or short locks and reassures her second son that “I’m okay, baby. Mama’s okay.”
As she fully rises from her slumber, she runs off with the little egg for an adventure, leaving the boy with the blue hair behind in her dreams, still awaiting the day of his mother’s return.