October 29, 2024

In a dream, the colors of dawn seep through the olive green curtains to your left. You stretch your arms above your head, let out a soft exhale, and glance to your right to see strands of your partner’s brown hair peeking out from a mound of blankets. The room smells of cinnamon and pumpkin, a candle burned too long from the night before. The beige walls of your childhood room mirror the early rays of sun. Your partner clutches the blanket, the gentle rise and fall of her chest casting a silhouette on the wooden floor. A soft laugh escapes you, careful not to stir her.

In a dream, the voices of your parents downstairs amble up to your room, muffled and blurry. The faint clink of dishes trails up, blended with the sizzling of butter and toast on the pan. Your mom calls out to you in her gentle voice a few seconds later, saying breakfast is ready. Are you hungry? There are eggs downstairs—how many do you want? The familiar warmth in her voice wraps around you.

In a dream, you tiptoe down the wooden stairs, your hand brushing the cool railing. As you lean your head around the corner, you see your dad, and he’s alive again—his salt-and-pepper hair unbrushed, wearing a blue oversized shirt that sneaks around his belly. When he sees you, he places a firm hand on your shoulder and squeezes it, his touch warm and steady, asking how you are, if you’re happy. He says it’s been so long since he last saw you. Has it really been three years? His brown eyes are curious, inviting. The tilt of his smile says he couldn’t be more proud, and he brings you in for a hug, like he’s trying to make up for those three years apart.

In a dream, your phone buzzes on the wooden dining table. It’s your best friend from years ago, leaving a ten-second voicemail asking when is a good time to call and catch up, because they miss hearing your voice. They repeat an inside joke from years back, their voice cracking with a smile, and after a second, they quietly say time just got the best of them, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t been thinking of you all this time.

In a dream, you pat your belly, satisfied from breakfast, and call out to your parents, saying you’re heading out on a bike ride and will be back in an hour. You leave the headphones in your room—this ride is intentional, present. You smile ear to ear as the wind cups your face, the sky’s light blue showering your skin. There is no competition; just you and the long stretch of light gray concrete. The sound of the bike chain turning blends in with the chatter of the birds above. Here in Houston, the miles of road are swathed in patches of dried grass swaying gently with the breeze, and the world holds you in its arms, just for a moment. You feel the rhythm of your breath, and it’s easy and free.

In a dream, it doesn’t hurt that all of these things aren’t true.

In a dream, you found a way to survive, and you were full of joy.