Will de Kypia

  ~

 To remember her dreams my mother kept a journal.

With lavender-scented ink she described the enchanted

world she dwelt in while asleep. A comfortable townhouse.

Private dinner parties at fashionable restaurants, menus

handwritten in French. And sensitive, caring friends.

Friends she'd meet when someday finally came.

To guard her treasures my mother found an antique

velvet jewelry box. The curios were arrayed within like

butterflies pinned to a board. Her favorite necklace, its coral

beads a gentler shade of red than the blood drops on her

pillow. A sandlewood fan, all scent long lost to time.

The tiny ivory elephant she'd ride away someday.

To share her hopes my mother bore one child, a son.

He was blue-eyed, silent, as steady as sweet grass in the

wind, and she adored him so. On the bad nights they'd cling

to each other and she'd explain again what powers each

treasure possessed, how hopes make dreams be true.

Her someday shimmered in his soft blue eyes.

  ~

My mother is alone now, asleep in her grave. The

box and book are near but the boy is far away.

He had no dreams or treasures or hopes of his own

and couldn't wait forever for someone else's someday.

   ➺