Omen

When my eyes close I dream I am a child again. I am the strongest I have ever been.

I rise out of bed with ease I have lost in my life awake. Swinging my legs over, standing, relishing the feel of my toes and the solid ground beneath my feet. I dance to songs in my head. And I dance to no song at all. I twirl and I skip and leap. I do everything I am no longer able to do.

Weeks go by and I venture further away from the bed, marveling at every tentative step I take and the growing distance between where I stand and where I’d started.

Each time I dream I start where I left in the last one. And over time, I find myself in the center of my room. My dream room. Which is much the same as the one I wake up in every morning: a nightstand and armchair on one side of my bed, an IV stand and EKG on the other. A soft rug under me, and oxygen tanks and masks tucked into the far corner.

The window to my right however, catches my eyes in a way the real one never has. Moonlight pours through with such intensity, I feel if the branches of the tree in front of my window were pushed away, I would find the moon right behind it.

I spend many dreams tracing the shattered beams of light on my floor.

One night, I dream a bird swoops down and lands on the low hanging branch just outside. The weight of it causing the end to tap against the glass.

Tap, tap, tap.

It folds broad, ashen wings and aims its gaze at me. The waxen color of its body and chest giving way to stiff feathers framing a heart shaped face, with facial disks of pure white. Its body and face completely absorb the light outside. It glows like the moon itself. But, as much as the owl seems to produce light, its eyes only consume it.

They coax me.

Lure me like danger.

Slowing the beating of my heart.

The eyes search mine, gently and thoroughly. And when it turns away I feel it’s come away with an absolute understanding of me

It looks out towards the clearing behind my home and the tree line that borders it. Thick pines and spurs, heavy with snow, rise from the frozen ground to cut into the distant horizon. The owl stares for so long it must see behind them. It's knowing eyes settle on me again and I think the idea isn’t too far off. I try to move closer to it but I feel myself begin to drift.

It’s how all the dreams end. My surroundings fade as I get lighter and lighter. The last thing I always see is the owl outside before my vision goes black.

And when my eyes open and I am in bed.

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I can’t get up like in my dreams. Or walk. I can’t even breathe like in my dreams. Without the tubes up my nose and a ventilator machine at my side, breathing is an impossible task that constricts my lungs and tightens my chest.

Crippling pain sears through my body and I exhale sharply through gritted teeth. I let out shuddering breaths as my hand scrambles for the call button next to my hip. I jam my thumb on it, keeping pressure on the button until the burning sensations subside.

Rita comes rushing in. Wearing her dark blue scrubs and her graying shoulder-length hair tied up in a bun. Her brow furrows as she checks my vitals and she turns to leave the room.

I press my lips together as I attempt to box up the pain I am feeling in my mind. I try to put it away, minimize it, even pretend I like it. I lie to myself, tell myself it’s not that bad. But my body is tearing me apart from the inside.

I can’t convince myself otherwise anymore.

Rita hurries back in with a full bag of what I know is morphine. I sigh at the reassuring sight. She hooks the bag on the IV stand and places it on a pump so it drips at a controlled rate.

I want to joke, tell her not to.

“Just let the morphine flow.”

But I don’t. It would only make her worry because I wouldn’t be joking at all.

I’d know and she’d know it too.

I was young when she first came. My mom told me she was a friend, here to help. Time made her one. My only one. But it also made me realize that I was her job. Feeding me, bathing me, treating me. And in these last few months, making me “as comfortable as possible”. The words spoken in hushed tones and whispers outside my door. Sad glances sent my way. As if I couldn’t hear. As if I couldn’t see.

I hold my eyes fast to the window as cool relief numbs my body. Snowflakes drift past my window to the ground below. A thin layer collecting on the low hanging branch the owl perches on in my dreams.

I have told Rita about the owl before. But she would only cluck her tongue saying, “there are no owls here Marta”, dabbing my forehead with a damp towel. And so I don’t tell her about the owl now. It would only upset her or make her look at me with dismay and pity.

Rita begins her routine; undressing me and wiping me down, humming as she works. And her humming puts me at ease. But for all the beauty of her songs, they do nothing to prevent the pinch of humiliation I feel when she cleans me, gingerly lifting limbs I have no control over. Or the sting of tears when she feeds me slowly and gently like the child I wish I was.

The child I dream I am.

It’s not long however, until she is done and preparing to go. She says her goodbyes, kissing my forehead like she always does. And I give her a tight smile. Pushing away the envy in my chest as she gets to walk out my room and I get to stay.

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I am at the window when I dream. I’ve pushed the armchair across the room so that I can sit next to the window and wait for the owl to come. My legs folded under the silky, billowing fabric of my nightgown.

When the owl glides down and lands on the branch I hold my breath. This is the closest I’ve ever been to it. And while it doesn’t strike me as skittish, I don’t want to take any chances. So I stay very still.

It wraps sharp talons around the wood, digging into the bark, and blinks slowly. I reach up to press my fingers to the cool glass, letting the outside chill seep into my skin as I scoot closer. The owl extends its wings, gathering air under them and lifts its legs to float further down the branch.

Closer to me.

A smile spreads across my face and I imagine I am on the other side stroking the wispy feathers on its belly.

I stay at the window for hours and the owl stays with me. By the time I feel myself drifting and everything begins to fade, I think I understand the owl too.

And I wish I could dream forever.

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It is evening when I open my eyes and my mother has returned from work. Her face is half-lit by the setting sun outside. Her bare feet pad softly on the wooden floor, quieting as she crosses the carpet to come to the side of my bed. She bends to switch on the lamp with a soft click and light washes over her features.

My features.

A heart-shaped face and small, rounded nose. Velvety, burnt umber hair that ripples at her slightest movement. And warm, hazel eyes that catch wonder and light like fire.

She was a vision of my future once. Now she is a glimpse of the one I will never have.

She wears a wide, tender smile. It tugs on my heart, warms my chest, and chases all my pain away. I smile back at her as she settles onto the armchair.

“I know you aren’t doing well.” She’s still smiling but it looks sad now. She keeps my hand in hers and tucks it under her arms as she rests them on the bed. Her face is close enough for me to see the moisture in her eyes. My heart sinks.

“You haven’t been doing well for some time.” Tears fall out of her eyes. “We want you here Marta, with us, for as long as possible. But not like this.” She squeezes my hand and looks toward all the medical equipment. “Never like this.”

Hot tears roll down my cheeks, wetting the pillow under my head.

“This is all I get Mom. This is all I have. And it is everything, if it means staying with you.”

She drops her head to her arms and begins to sob.

I am sobbing too.

“Please don't cry. I'm sorry.” I whisper it over and over again.

I wish I could hug her. I wish I could make her happy. Make her stop crying.

I wish I could stay alive. If only for her.

She climbs under my blankets and onto the bed with me, cradling my thin shoulders against her stomach. My head falls against her chest.

I fall asleep to her soft weeping.

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I don't wake up that night. Or the morning after.

I drift instead.

To the window, and then through, where I meet the owl on the other side.

When I settle myself next to it, on the low hanging outside my window, I am me. The me I should have been.

And I am my mother. The me I would have been.

And I swing my legs and laugh. Like the child I used to be.

So when the world dissolves around me, I don't see the harsh light I thought I would.

It’s…soft.

It is the flicker of a single flame. The glow of the sun on my mother’s skin. The glimmer of moon caught on the feathers of the owl.

It is a balm over the aches of my battered soul.

I let the light consume me, and consume it in return.

And I smile one more smile before that dissolves too.