February 6, 2012

In my dream, he has a red coat.

In my dream, he has a red coat. A red coat, and a striped scarf, and tiny black mittens and tall green boots.

I lift him out of his car seat, and he cheers and wraps his arms around my neck. He is big enough to walk, but I love the smell of him, love the way he rests his cheek ever so briefly on my shoulder, love how his hand wanders into my hair, despite the mittens. And so I carry him. Because I can.

It is cold here. Our breath leaves us as wispy white ghosts, making us giggle. We whisper together excitedly as we walk up to the apartment, and knock, and wait to be let in. My brother whips open the door and we are welcomed with that enveloping enthusiasm that never ceases to startle and amaze and comfort me. My brother is all enthusiasm, all quick movement and noise and taking up space and I absolutely adore him for it. Noah hides his face, feigning shyness--but we all know better. Soon enough he is laughing and playing and running around with R, and they are ridiculously cute together, and it is good, it is so, so good, and we are happy.

We are so ridiculously happy.


Sometimes I wonder if this is happening, right now, in some alternate universe. I hope it is happening. I hope it happens again and again and again. I hope there is a place where my baby is alive. Live, baby! Live, my darling. Live and be happy. Play with your cousin and grow and live and be happy.

And you too, other me. I hope you can live, and be happy. Just like in my dreams.


  1. I wonder about those alternate universes too. One where she lives. One where both my daughters live. And I suppose too, that sad place, where neither of them do.

    But I hope it does happen. And those alternate places it is the only thing that happens. They live. Again and again. Georgina. Noah. Ailis. My tiny one who never really had a chance at all. That they live and are happy. That we are happy. In those other places.

    1. I see no reason why it shouldn't be true. Sometimes I think everything is real. Why shouldn't every single thing be real? Do we actually think we are powerful enough, imaginative enough, to come up with something that is truly New?

      Rhetorical questions, obviously. No one can answer. But I choose my own answers here and if it's more or less right than anyone else's, well... I suppose we won't find out till the end.