I’ve been really unwell since the last two days. Feeling feverish, getting cramps, and retching uneasily around midnight. Somewhere deep inside my stomach, I feel a painful unease. Trying to sleep at night has become a tough project now. So, I try to dream of soothing things – like jasmine petals in a tub of cool water in which I soak my feet. Or standing in front of an ice-slab that’s placed before a cooler on a hot, humid day. Last night, though, I dreamt of something very beautiful and profound.
I was lying on bed wearing my polka-dot cotton shorts and a military-print vest. It’s around two in the afternoon, and there’s a child on the bed. I think the kid is around three or four years old, and is painting something or arranging blocks. I imagine it’s a girl because I sense it’s my baby. Thus far, I have only thought of being a mother to a daughter.
I’m looking at her very lovingly, playing with her little toes and watching her flinch and wiggle her feet away.
I can’t see the face of the baby, though. Her breathing is even and peaceful. I’m relaxed just listening to it.
I get tired of the silence, so I ask her something. Although we are decades apart, and although I am her sole caretaker, and she is my daughter, etc., this conversation oddly feels woman-to-woman.
“Is this world good? Or this world bad?”, I ask her.
For a few moments, I hear her calm, peaceful breathing. Then she replies, “It’s mine.”
Ah, the simplicity of arrogance. Truly, her mother’s daughter.