Thursday, November 18, 2010

Home again, her gray-white hair


1:52 a.m. A series of familiar domestic scenes composed as life-sized photographs, each of which can be opened like doors with a flapping, clacking, wooden-plastic sound. Behind the last, my mother is sitting upright on a plain brown couch from my childhood, her head against the wall and face older than ever, with deep-set wrinkles the grooves of which extend upward into her gray-white hair. She is smiling, and even though I know she’s alive, I’m so surprised and overjoyed by it that I cry out oh oh oh in a voice that wakes me up, and then continues, as it slowly ebbs into a moan.


Update:
In the Forum: this volume is affectionately inscribed.

4 comments:

rahina q.h. said...

what a dream... have we not all often dreamt of our parents and cried out in our sleep? how pathetic that i had forgotten those protection of a long dead father now doubly absent and a mother who now needs my protection... thank you for awakening me from this world...

William Michaelian said...

Not really forgotten, Rahina, just submerged in present duties and needs. And I suppose that’s one thing dreams are for, that realigning leap or jolt. I was thinking today that it might have been well to keep this dream to myself. Now I’m glad I didn’t.

Momo Luna said...

I'm glad you didn't as well dear William.
Beautiful.

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Monica. The dream stayed with me the whole day, all the way to bedtime. I thought it might even resume in my sleep, but instead it melted away....