Remember when we were little, that game we used to play? We'd press our noses against a cold pane of glass and exhale deep and long causing a fog to cover the window. Then we'd try to draw images into the fog that we wished were really outside and a part of the scenery.
Remember that? I especially remember when we played inside that Church on Mayhew street. It had those big white double-doors and the windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. It was the perfect place to play our game, if not the perfect place to be left behind.
I remember the day mother dropped us there - hugging us and whispering that she'd be back later. That day, we played the game dreaming up images of fantastical things outside the window: flying dolphins jumping over the clouds like they do over the crests of waves, a giant holding a maypole under his big toe while little stick children wove ribbon around it beneath his benevolent feet, and a swimming pond filled with ginger beer. That day we dreamed an impossibility.
That day gave way to days where we dreamed the implausible: mom's return. Each day we played the game - feigning bravery for one another. But, without fail, mother would show up in our pictures - off on a hillside, holding our hands, sending a telegram. We never spoke of her appearance, just understood that she was there - in our memories and our dreams if not in our reality.
Remember those days? I wish you were hear to play right now. Instead, I'll have to dream you here on the window.
Created: Jan 21, 2011TheJoycean Document Media