The Dream

Ivy awoke slowly and lay still for several minutes. Like other mornings, it wasn’t a fight to leave the pillows. There was no heaviness. There was a dream, soft and calm like this space between dawn and daylight.

 She lingered at the edge of awake, wanting to let the dream percolate. It felt real and important. Soft navy twilight. A harbor? Calm twinkling water. A solid man with broad shoulders covered in a cozy wool sweater the vibrant emerald shade of sitka spruce. She couldn’t see his face except for a hint of stubble. Tall, muscular, sturdy. A feeling of deep comfort and expanse, like the whole world was open wide, but cradling these two lovers. The profound stillness of a long-awaited embrace. It was a Taylor Swift song personalized for her.  

She tucked the dream away, filing it some place between urgent and wistful and rose with purpose, ready to fill her day with something other than heartache.

Ivy’s grandmother had always told them growing up that love has to unfold. It stays bunched up at first, compact and tight. That feeling of wanting to burst. And when it expands, it has to unfold. Each fold presents differently. It can be beautiful like a crisp napkin stored in an antique pine chest. Or it can be an agonizing barefoot walk on splintered wood. Often, it is both. Sometimes it is getting a splinter from opening that pine chest to retrieve gingham napkins for a picnic. Like today.

The fire in the hearth was glowing in its pool of white clay, sending flickers of light into the nook off the kitchen in her grandmother’s house. She loved being back here, within these walls that had always held the promise of evening lullabies and dreams that lingered. Ivy approached the round table with the heirloom chest of tableware finery. Her favorites were the dainty silver teaspoons and the crocheted tea cozy, neither of which she’d need for today. Singing along to Taylor Swift’s ‘Death by A Thousand Cuts,’  Ivy reached for the gingham picnic napkins. She brushed the outside of her pinky finger against a snag on the pine chest. She immediately clutched her hand to her heart. The sensation took her out of her cocoon. Deep sadness drifted in. No meals would she enjoy with Connor in this kitchen. No more picnics under the willow tree. No family games or long conversations over hot chocolate.

A memory came back to her in that moment. It was her first Christmas with ex-fiance. An unexpected snowstorm kept her from driving to Washington for the holidays her first year at university and Connor, a friend of a friend, insisted that she spend Christmas with his family. “It won’t be weird. The more the merrier, I promise,” he’d said. And it was merry. And not even a little bit weird. She was just one of five strays at the gathering. His parents lived in a classic Victorian gingerbread house, framed perfectly in shining icicles. Dainty flakes dusted the windows like powdered sugar. Tufts of soft snow draped the lawn in smooth swirls like marshmallow frosting. 

The snow was just the right texture for building snow forts and snow men. All the young kids were building a walk-in snow globe fort. Fine details were being hammered out by adults in lively conversation and the children were cheerfully bickering over how large to make the snow bricks. There was so much laughter and cheer. 

She noticed Connor’s nephew on the far side of the yard, a sullen demeanor cutting into his tiny frame. This sweet boy had drawn welcome pictures when she first arrived, complete with pink heels and a crown. He was worried Ivy and the others didn’t have enough presents under the tree so he wrapped up some of his stuffed animals. He was a sensitive kid and it was clear he was feeling left out. 

 Connor arrived by his side first. When she made it over he said, “Me and Jake are going to make a really special snowman. Can we recruit you to help us?” It turned out to be a beautiful snowman. 

Looking back at that memory, she felt like the snowman they built looking into the snow-globe. She felt like she should belong, but it was someone else’s perfect life. Connor would be a great dad, but it felt removed from her. She wondered if it was because she hadn’t been conditioned to expect to find that or value it perhaps, or if it was because Connor wasn’t her golden future. Or because it felt too polished. She felt like she was tiptoeing towards a future with a family to cherish, but now that she wasn’t with him, the confusion circled around her in dizzying swirls. 

After all, she didn’t grow up thinking she was supposed to want to be a dedicated wife and mother, to homestead or iron her husband’s shirts and knit baby clothes or can peaches. She was supposed to want to build her profession and travel the world volunteering in her off-time. She was supposed to be self reliant and rational, a dedicated activist to all worthy causes. But meeting Connor started to unravel those binds. She had never felt this undone before.

The smell of melting chocolate brought her back to her intentions, into the sunlight dancing with the hearth flames on the marble hutch. She was testing out picnic recipes. She’d need to hurry over to stir the brigadeiro, a Brazilian chocolate dessert that was a crowd favorite at Connor’s family gatherings. His mother had warned her to keep constant watch on it or it would burn. Ivy missed Connor’s vibrant family and the culture that took her in. She felt another tinge. 

 Sweet Breath. In and out. 

She’d find another Taylor Swift song to sing along to because she would not let today be a death by a thousand cuts just because of a breakup. She’d had heartbreak before and went traveling the world after each time, but now she felt that insular need to grow a community. She needed to root and gather. There was joy to be had, family to love, beginnings to grow, and for now— an early morning breakfast to fuel her for the new dreams that were marinating.