She came, a beam of sunlight, a flickering obstinate thing, too strong to let life give her the slip. She came and curled up in the bed opposite mine. I woke in the night to the sounds of her cries for the two homes lost forever and two mommies and a past so tangled, even she was unsure of the truth.
I curled up by her side, stroking her hair until I heard her breathing turn deep and long, and tried to slip away into my bed, but was followed by a whimper. A year of silent seconds. My heavy eyes opening and awake with every movement of the warmth next to me until we fall into dreams together.
I dream of cursed mermaids with bodies so slippery they can never touch anything or anybody because they slide away. And so they drift into the in-between of water and air with a layer of dead space between them and everything else.
And I awoke to cries. She is dizzy in her changing homes, terrified of the very past she misses so, and outraged at the fact that no one will let her choose a mother and let her stay in those arms. We wake again, just beating my alarm clock and the rising sun.
I remember being curled that way with another girl, her curly dark hair framing a sleeping face, where one can watch her nightmares frame-by-frame in her pained expressions. And I remember yet another child whom I comforted from a cough and found in my arms, in the night, crying for a mother who should have never born children.
I don't remember when she started sneaking in silently to curl up on my floors, safe from nightmares. That girl, she was so much older and so much younger than myself. I only barely remember doing the same when I was still small enough to sneak into my parents' bed unnoticed.
And the velvet of night, and the strangeness of finding yourself in the rising sun - that I remember every time.
And the sunbeam child flickers in, a new addition to my dreams, a new child to fall in love with, another tear waiting to be shed, and I can only hopelessly hope that she will be forever, not just a fleeting dream in the shadows, one more memory of night.
Leue and Bros.