A Daydream
I am four years old, and I am wearing my first pearl gown. It is the first of many mother will let me wear and I am ever so proud that she is trusting me to wear such delicate fabric to play at a party. I have been very careful to stay away from mud, to eat cake and drink tea very carefully and to keep my fingers clean for I know how grime can make white gloves dirty so easily, and how quickly dirty fingers can mar the soft, pale fabric. I want mother to be proud of me.
I am walking home - mother said she would meet me at the gate a few yards away (of course she could see me the whole way, I know that now) so I could feel grown up for the few yards between the road and our gate.
In the world beyond my dream, as I tripped and cried, you were there before mother could get to me, six years old and already a gentleman as you passed on your pony with your father. You saw me fall and slid from your mount, rushing to help, dry my tears and promise you would tell my mother what had happened, how it hadn't been my fault, how I had been so careful. We both wore gloves that day, but the warmth of yours in mine was so firm, so comforting, I never forgot it. It was a grip that said you would never let me fall again, and I trust it more than I trust myself.
In my dream, as I watch you across the ballroom, my arm linked through my husband's, you were never there. I was never imprinted, like a lamb to a shepherd - you were never imprinted on my heart. In my dream, my husband reaches a hand to cover mine, squeezes reassuringly and I feel the care he offers as the best example of care I have ever experienced. I feel it as I should, with pride and satisfaction and desire and most of all, with love.
In my dream, we have children, and they look like him, and I am proud to be a mother to such handsome children. Proud to bear such creatures borne of love and passion and need.
In my dream you are as the mist, a fleeting thought, a memory burned away by the sun of my true love.
In my dream I do not wish to run away with you, I do not wish to run to you now and hold you in my arms, I do not wish to throw the arm from my waist. In my dream I do not wish to find a quiet moment with you to mimic the sight I saw between Zainab and Amelia. In my dream I do not want to tear at your clothes to feel your skin on mine. I do not want to pull your mouth to my body, only to gasp in holy exultation. In my dream your hair has never been in my hands, or your eyes on my breasts. In my dream I do not need to know from experience exactly how Zainab rearranged her face in a picture of calm serenity. In my dream I do not need to wonder how it is that you make my body feel sensations I have not felt in the time I have known my body - in the time anyone has. In my dream, I do not know my body. In my dream I do not know my mind, for I sleep upon the silken pillow of society and decorum.
In my dream, it is not a dream.
But we both know dreams are for children.
