How many white houses will there be?
I’ve lost count, but it’s a dream, so it doesn’t really matter. I’ve had my eye on the one that’s lonesome, standing on the corner of the street, the dim streetlight the only thing reflecting it as it sits still and somber. I want to reach out to it, but it seems too far for my arms to stretch, so despite how emotionally exhausted I am, and how heavy my shoulders are, I drag my legs, which feel like they’re filled with lead, toward my dream home. Oh, it’s there, among many white houses. It’s painted red, like a rose, and stands out against the canvas of the dreary sky. It’s calling to me, and I come to it.
Does it really exist?
I reach the door, the golden knob cold to the touch. It feels real, but then again so does a lot of things that aren’t. I’ve learned that society and fantasy can often be misleading. Sometimes you have dreams that feel so real, you’ll remember them later and not be able to recall if it’s a memory, or a dream. Or a memory that felt like a dream, felt like it didn’t actually happen, because you were repressing it. The brain is simply confusing.
I would open the door.
It takes me a moment to adjust my eyes because the light is so bright that it’s blinding. I’ve never been in a room so bright, but when I can finally see, I’m in awe. It’s my mother. She’s sitting in the middle of the room, in a rocking chair, humming a lullaby she used to sing me. She says to me, “I’m so happy to see you here now, Sang, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” I can feel my body start to tremble. My dark eyes are watering over, I can feel a lump in my throat and an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I don’t like having these emotions, but here I am. Something about this reality keeps me on my toes.
She’s there in this reality, smiling and happy. Alive and healthy. We’re not living in a world where she has to constantly protect me. I’m protecting her. We live here, in this little red house, living among the little white houses. Together. Forever. In our new world.