An astounding richness gathered in folds that hugged my body; silk, freshly-scented folds of soft, cool material, breezy and brilliant, that I embraced back, breathing it in and out, smiling, my eyes half-shut, but still aware of the brightness of the midday summer sunshine, casting bars of shadows on my face from my eyelashes. I lay down in tender blades of sweet grass, springtime enveloping the entirety of my soul, filling up missing pieces that were previously in disarray. I was home, in my childhood house, in my mother’s kitchen; I loved that kitchen. I loved the solid oak cupboards and I remembered tracing my tiny, slender, soft fingertips up and down the s-shaped, intricate designs. I loved reaching into the cupboard and grabbing my favorite pot, which looked like a witch’s cauldron, cast-iron and blackened from years of wear and tear; I would fill it with tea-towels and stir them around with a wooden spoon, pretending I would cast a magic spell.
I lay awake in bed, flexing the tension from my legs, hugging my sheets close to me, recounting the sketchy details of the beautiful dream I had. Flowers…spring flowers, and silk. Lots of folding silk. I loved the feeling of rubbing two pieces of silk together; it is soft and you can squeeze it; the more you squeeze, the better it feels. I curled up in my bed, in the fetal position. Beautiful dreams didn’t happen often. I smiled at my dream. It was bright and vivid. Maybe now I can heal, I thought to myself. Maybe the darkness was finally leaving me. But it wasn’t. It was short-lived and shattered the moment I opened my eyes; silk, my childhood kitchen, the smell of grassy spring fields – it was all in my head, but gone in a single splinter of a moment.