Recurring Dreams
29 Aug 2010 Leave a Comment
in One Shot Shorties, Topic of Discussion
This moment was perfect. I smiled brightly, pushing a lock of hair out of my face. My arms around him, my heart soaring in a way I never thought I’d feel. Ever.
He opened his eyes, brown. Brown eyes have a unique beauty, I think. And his eyes were perfect. He looked at me curiously, his mouth curving up. Perfect.
I never wanted to let him go, and wouldn’t have, if the nurse hadn’t pulled him away to wash him up. My son, my perfect little boy. Looking at him, all the familial names didn’t fit him. I had no name for someone so perfect.
I wished my father was here. He would beam as proud as anyone, if they put that little boy in his arms. Someone to carry on the family name anyway. I had all but promised him never to expect any grandchildren from me. And now here I was, alone – far enough away from any, and all family that this moment, so auspicious to my existence, was merely like any other to them.
I had to do what I had to do. I left home, breaking my daddy’s heart, and giving my mother the reason she had sought all my life – to disown me. I couldn’t contact my brother about my pregnancy. I love him, but I’m not into his whole faith thing. I am what I am, I can know and respect, even find grains of truth from all faith – because according to logic I cannot discount any one, or plural God(s). Great thing about being Hellenic under Athena. Logic and Wisdom rule all. I just don’t want to be dragged to my brother’s Sanctuary in order to “save my son.”
All my life I have been keenly intuitive, particularly with my family. I know without reason, how they will respond to things. My mother would surely have accused me of being a whore. I love my son’s father. But we’re not in love.
The nurse places my boy back in my arms, again I smile, my heart has never felt fuller. All the fears I accumulated over a lifetime crept slowly back into my mind. Someday he might feel as broken by me as I felt by my mother. Tears fell from my eyes, my son once again opened his, his tiny brow seemed to furrow, as if in concern for me. This little soul was my light, my everything.
Still saturated with fear, I spoke my first words to my boy, “We should name you, little one.” I told him, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I wish I had a crystal ball, to see who you will become, that way I could give you a name suited to you. Unfortunately, they won’t let me wander out of here without a name on your birth certificate.” He blinked at me, before yawning and pulling one tiny fist to his mouth.
“I agree, it is rather tedious. I imagine we could name you after a literary character, or a great writer even.” His fist was thrust into the air. “Hm, is that a negative?” My son cooed at me, making my face light up one more. I could name a fictional character without thinking, but I couldn’t name my own son.
Old fashioned names stuck to me. Bronsen, Theodore, William, Sebastien. Names that would get him teased in school no doubt. I considered naming him for my paternal grandfather, Russell, but it didn’t fit him. He yawned again, briefly looking me in the eye before nodding off.
I held him, remembering the names of great men, names of men who made history, and then it came to me, Sir Thomas Wyatt, the sixteenth century poet.
“Dear heart, how like you this?” I quoted. “Not Thomas Wyatt, but Wyatt Thomas. That way your grandpa has his homage.” My son cooed softly in his sleep. I took this to be his affirmative, my son had a name, he slept blissfully in my arms.
Thanked be Fortune it hath been otherwise,
Twenty times better; but once in special,
–
And therewith all sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”
————————————————————————————-
I’ve been having this recurring dream for weeks. ME, the broad so terrified of turning into her own mother – that’s she’s sworn of reproduction. Pretty much sworn off any and all social connections.
But this dream keeps poking at me, it scares me senseless. But that tiny little brown eyed baby steals my heart away any time I doze off.
Don’t ask me why a poem I read in my first year of high school (about a pair of lovers no less) seems to take up space. Not that I can deny that I think Wyatt Thomas would be a perfect name for a son of mine…
HELP I’M LOSING IT!
