I was pregnant. In my dream. Belly round. Breasts swollen. My nipples browner and browner. I counted months on my fingers and realized it would be an October baby. Like me. I couldn’t go to India. The birth of the baby would cut into my trip. That was ok. I was going to have a baby. In my dream I imagined myself taking the baby the following year. On my back, brown, dressed in oranges and pinks with shine. She would smile while we walked on dusty roads, while the bicycles zoomed by.
The father was this Swiss guy I dated when I was 21. WTF? I haven’t been in touch with him for about 10 years. He was nice about having this unexpected baby with me and was willing to help me with health insurance because I don’t have any. In my dream I was excited to paint the paradise waters of my walls white and sell everything to leave. I no longer wanted to be in the Bay Area. In real life I no longer want to be in the Bay Area. The weather is driving me crazy and I find myself bored. I am doing a lot and have beautiful people in my life but I am still bored. I talked about it last night. Maybe that is why I had a dream about being pregnant with a Cuban-Swiss baby and leaving to be closer to my family.
Back to my dream:
In my excitement of being pregnant I saw my aunt and her vision was clear. She looked younger no signs of almost blindness. She read my stories. She commented on my stories. She showed me the words that moved her and tears dropped from her eyes. I wrote in English and Spanish. Then she tucked me into bed and her words were like my poems. She repeated them over and over.
After painting the paradise waters of my walls white I was packing to move to Miami. I was going to move to my Madrina’s house only if she stopped smoking cigarettes. She stopped smoking and the air smelled clean again. She stopped because new life was coming to her home. I just called her and told her my dream. She laughed thinking that in the dream she probably told me that she would never stop. I told her, No, you stopped. She was surprised. I smoked for fifteen years of my life. I know what addiction is like. I also forget.
I kept counting the months on my fingers and looking at my breasts enlarging. The unknown is hard for me. I no longer rely on tarot cards or oracles to tell me. I grew up on trying to figure out my future without just being present. I think about leaving the Bay Area so much now. I can no longer grow here. I have nothing of material worth except for this computer I write on. I live simply accumulating furniture and things through out the years. I forget sometimes that I moved here with 15 boxes, 2 suitcases and a cat. I can do it again with less than that. 5 of those boxes were books. Books that I want to sell. There are some that I want to hold unto and hug them to my chest. I wonder how will I travel with such a huge Qur’an and realize I must leave it in someone’s house and get a travel sized one instead. The rest of the items in the other boxes have either been disposed or given away. One winter day when I was in a cleaning madness I let go of all the letters I had since seventh grade. Notes from school, letters from summers away. I read them all one night and threw them out. I kept a few letters in air mail envelopes from my brother. A letter from this guy named, Pan. I kept his letter because he declared his love to me when I was 19 and I can’t even remember who he is. I put Pan in the search bar on Facebook and he doesn’t come up. Who is he?
When I think of my dream and I think about moving away I think about all the kids I have helped raise. Three little girls sat around a kitchen table. 6, 4 and almost 4. One of them asks when I am going to be a mother. I tell her I need a partner first. The 6 years old says, she needs to get married first. The 4 years old says, That’s hard work. What is?, I ask. Finding a partner, she says. I wonder if these little girls are like little old ladies. Or if they are sent as messengers. When I think about moving away I am also confronted with that fact that I will leave them. I don’t want to. So, I wonder if I should count the months on my fingers. In reality the Swiss guy is not in my life nor is any other. I have become more conservative and disciplined and no longer have sex without commitment. I can’t count the months on my fingers. Sometimes I feel like I will never be a mother. The almost 4 years old sat on my lap before bedtime and tells me I am already a mother. To whom?, I ask. To your kids!, she says. I wonder if she is talking about the baby I miscarried when I was 16 or all the kids I’ve helped raise. Not knowing the unknown. I have to trust and accept and believe that dreams and people’s words can be like messengers. There will be a time when I will count the months, insha’Allah.