Six Before Breakfast

Wasn’t it C.S. Lewis who talked about dreaming six impossible things before breakfast? I feel like that’s what happens in my world. In those moments between wake and asleep. When I’m some-what awake and yet my eyes haven’t focused but all my other senses are heightened.

Cool sheets against warm skin. Spring breeze from the window tickling my exposed thighs. Open windows. The smell of the rain. Dampness and dirt in the air. Earth. The sound of birds on the porch. A cacophony of tweets and buzzes as they dig for worms and build their nests. A train whistle somewhere miles away. Someone is mowing a lawn.

The fuzzy memories of a dream in which he enters inside me. And then, spent, we lay tangled in the sheets. His heavy breath in my hair. The scent of salt. His skin lingering in the bedroom air. His hand on my hip. Maybe I imagine these things. Maybe they really aren’t there . . .

But in these moments anything is possible. In these moments, I see his face as clearly as the day we met. The softness and kindness in his eyes. In these moments, he is happy. And he is mine. And I am his. And yet we belong to no one. We just find the rhythm of living. Together. The impossibilities of it do not exist. The past. The scars. It all dissipates in the clouds of my dreams that occur between those tiny, morning moments between sleep and awake.

Defying the impossibility of it all, I open my eyes and focus. Staring a the ceiling. Imagining that it’s blue.

Quickly I close them, roll over, and sigh softly. It’s not time to get up.

I want to dream it again. Six more times before breakfast . . .

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.