on dreaming, or trying to
By Natalie Lim
we’re sitting in a field in
the dead of winter. my mother,
young, rosy-cheeked, is braiding
my hair, saying that boy
is no good for you, you look so
thin these days, can I cook
you something? we make
a garden. carve through
the snowy ground as dirt
gives way to our shovels,
to laughter, what are we planting?
I ask, and feel silly for asking,
because how could anyone know?
it’s cold. I open my fist
and watch seeds drift down
into the darkness we created.
I hope next year, we come back
to something living, something I can touch
with hands that are no longer chapped,
that don’t remember how to miss
other hands, backs, faces —
they reach across the void
for my mother’s hair, long suddenly,
the way she used to wear it.
we weave ourselves together too tight.
I wake up wishing for calloused fingers
and snow on my tongue.
instead, sweat-soaked sheets
and my mother lying quiet in the room
down the hall. I tiptoe to her side,
press my hand into hers, pray
the way she taught me, squeeze tight.
tighter. like we could fix this space between us
with a touch, the right words,
easy as dreaming up laughter.
easy as burying joy.