“I have dreamt in my
life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they
have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the
color of my mind. And this is one: I’m going to tell it – but take care not to
smile at any part of it.” Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
I was alone and scared, and desperate, living beneath the
eaves of a great home, filled with young children and a loving couple, who gave
me refuge within their castle. Cast away in the basement, I hid from shame, I
covered my mind from fear, cowering at my present situation. I was homeless and
penniless when it seemed just yesterday I was a princess in my own castle, with
a family filled with love and warmth. But that time passed and I was alone
and cold.
I would hear noises in the basement. They sounded like
voices of demons and ghosts and they frightened me, but I knew it was just the
air conditioner preparing to exhale. The basement was so dark I saw visions
floating past me, but I realized my eyes were just closed and my imagination
was catching me.
I couldn’t sleep for when I did, I was haunted. I would
dream of her but she was unreachable. I dreamt we were at a large arena filled
with familiar faces of everyday life. Sitting in the stands I was at the bottom
of the bleachers searching for her and I spotted her way up top. I called out
to her “Mom!” but she did not hear me. She was too busy talking to others. I
reached out to her for one last embrace, to cherish her being, but the dream
ended and she was gone. I dreamt this dream over and over, waking to tears
flooding from me, dripping onto my already cold skin.
As much as I wished, and wrenched my heart wishing it so,
those were days long gone. Instead I found myself alone, shunned from all I knew, knowing I must
leave. "This is not my home. I am not a guest. I am a bum who has
graciously been given temporary shelter. I don’t belong here and my welcome is
a burden."
My wound still had not even begun to heal, and it was fresh,
raw and hurting. The healing process had not even started. I wished I were a
little girl again when my mom was there to hold me and make it all better. She
would always say to me that the pain means, “It’s getting better, getting
better” as she'd sing a little tune. And I believed it. But she was gone and the
pain was getting worse.
My wound couldn't be seen, but my anger spoke of it, “Till it
happens to you, you won’t know how I feel.” I needed to pull myself together, and
I’d be fine. Hold my head up and be strong, I needed to get up and move on. But
what the hell did I know?
Tears still poured from me. My fear of the ghosts and demons
paralyzed me. My eyes clenched shut I prayed for reprieve, for an answer. And
then my prayer was answered. I saw my grandmother, with her bright red hair,
glowing skin, eyes filled with rays, her full and portly figure. I loved and
missed her very much. She always had a smile on her face and gave when she had
nothing to give.
She spoke to me, “Call your Uncle Jack.”
The next morning, light filtered in from the basement window
well, reminding me the day was new. I called my Uncle Jack. I had a job offer
in the big city but the pay was too little for me to afford rent. But it was a
job. If I could find a way to make it work things would work out. Maybe if
Uncle Jack would let me live with him and my Aunt Jane, things would be ok?
I dialed his number. The phone rang. My Aunt Jane picked up.
Before I could even get the words out to ask, she said, in her Minnie Mouse
voice with thick New York accent, “You come live with us.”
I asked him how they knew why I was calling. My
Uncle Jack told me that he was at church one Sunday and this lady was in front
of him. She had bright red hair, glowing skin, eyes filled with rays, and a
full and portly figure. “For a moment, I thought it was my mother,” he said. “And
when you called, we just knew.”
And just like that, I moved on.
