Awake

“This is my worst nightmare” I sighed to myself.

Every night I dreamt of the same thing. It’s like my brain doesn’t know what to do with all the information I process during the day. My brain feels like a movie theater, playing the same dream, over and over every night when I fall asleep. Sometimes the dream changes, but most of the time it’s the same thing.

I’m young, old enough to walk and speak, but young enough that I can’t control my emotions. My mother is making soup, I think this time it smells like tomato. Last time I remember smelling broccoli.

The tomato scent feels familiar, like the time my mom and I picked cherry tomatoes in the summer, feeling the blazing sun beat down on our backs, but laughing all the same. As I stand in my old room, the room I grew up in, I feel this wave of sadness pass over me. I am missing something. Is it my necklace that my best friend gave me last summer? Or my wool socks that I was given by my father, right before he left the house and didn’t return that evening.

I know in my head that my father never returned because he was tired of us. He thought his life was going to be exciting when he and my mom were young and in love. He didn’t realize that the baby that was coming would take up so much of his time.

I know I’m missing something. I can’t tell exactly what it is, but I know that the overwhelming despair and sorrow I feel tells me so. Suddenly my mother calls me to the kitchen, her sing-song voice echoing off the walls of my room. Her voice is like music, every word comes out smooth and elegant. I don’t feel that sadness anymore, so I run towards the kitchen. I am just about to pass through the door to her smiling face when…

I wake up in my bed. I’m cold from the open window and the winter air that rushes in, brushing my naked feet. I sigh again. “This is my worst nightmare” I think to myself, as I get up to slam the window closed. I can’t remember why I left it open, knowing that the temperature would drop in the evening.

Work passes by slowly, slow enough to be draining. The bank I work at is tired and old, the building sagging with fatigue. Each of the tellers is cranky today, their customers making them snippy and short. I feel the same way I do every day. Absent, robotic. Sometimes I remember glimpses of the time before I was like this. Energetic, loving, laughing all the time. My day passes by silently, nothing piquing my interest.

When I get home at 5:30pm, I am feeling the same way I did this morning. Exhausted. I never seem to feel rested these days. It’s like my body is old, even though I only just turned twenty-nine last month. I should be exuberant now that I am off work. Instead, I feel like a soggy loaf of bread. I warm up some of my leftover Thai food I had two days ago. Drunken noodles taste good when you eat them initially, but over a couple days they lose some of their “drunkenness”. During my dinner, I peruse my thoughts, thinking back to my dream.

I haven’t thought of my father, nor my best friend although they pass through my brain each night when I dream. My father was an odd man, he was thoroughly interested in music. I have no such interest; I find music to be depressing. Although…I have only one song in my head. My mother would sing. Her voice was melodious and sweet and is the only music I could really stand when I was younger.  

My best friend on the other hand, was charismatic and full of joy. She thought the world was a good place and loved things the way she loved everything. Fully, and intensely. She used to say that in a world filled with love, everything deserves to be cared for. I remember her telling me she took a spider into the grass that had been cowering in the corner while her cat played with it. She felt as if the spider too, deserved a life worth living.

When we got older, she gave me a necklace she had made from seashells. She said it reminded her of a time in her life when she was the happiest. She wanted that for me too. I always told her I felt lost, like I was swimming in open water with no land in sight. Like the loneliness I felt wasn’t my own.

I felt tired again. Lost in my thoughts was a way for me to feel sleepy. After cleaning up my dinner, I laid my head on my pillow. I thought I heard music in the wind outside, so I decided to open the window. It reminded me of my mom in that instance. My eyes felt heavy, and I drifted into the same dream, again.

I’m young again. Old enough to walk and speak, but young enough that my emotions are going crazy. My mother is making soup again, this time it smells like potatoes and cheese.

The smell is sour though, like someone put too much lemon in the soup. Like I can taste the lemon in my mouth. But when I taste the lemon, I am brought back to my room. Lemons are reminiscent of my mother too. We used to make fresh squeezed lemonade every Sunday, and when I set up my lemonade stand, my mother was there the whole time. She would always buy the first cup, delicately placing $1 in my jar. We only got a few customers each Sunday, but she supported me, nonetheless.

As I stand in that old room, clothes strew into the baskets, I feel a wave of relief pass over me. It’s like, I know something is going to be okay. My mother calls me, her high voice bouncing off the walls to my ears, and I know that the soup won’t taste sour.

I run to the kitchen, and this time I make it. I’m home. She smiles at me, her lips curling in a way that feels familiar. And then, just before she hugs me...



I wake with a jolt. It’s 2am and I’m cold again, my window left open as snow falls outside. I get up to close the window slowly, trying to go back to the place in my dream. Trying to feel like home again.

“This is my worst nightmare” I sigh to myself. I lay back when the window is closed and try to go home.