Waterlily

There's a toad in my dream. There's always a toad. Stone still. He ignores the impertinence of nothingness. He sits. Silent. Bug-eyed and blank-faced. Sat upon a pristine lily pad. In my pond. In my backyard. Unaware, unconcerned, that I call this haunted acre home.

Always, just after theta waves take hold, when sleep paralysis settles in, there arrives a long stretched note, not Beethoven or Bach or Debussy, but Mozart. That one strong upper register A that dances in the bright clear kiss of blue mid-summer sky, held high and steady and sure, well above the bassoon and the obo. The toad cares little to none. But I try. From my bedroom window I silently scream: the timpani lies in wait! Hear the ominous.

Squat, bumpy skinned, and wide nosed, the toad sits croaking. Every moment of his life he's croaking. His wide amber eyes blink away the beauty, blink away my warnings, blink away time itself. He sees me, perhaps. Or perhaps not. But either way, he won't heed my warnings.

And in my dream, this recurring dream, I watch him. My mind boggles to see how he watches, oblivious, to the fact that nothing ever changes. He cannot blink away the beauty. And yet he cannot be part of it either. He's squat, bumpy skinned, and wide nosed.

He spots a fly. Zaps it with his long tongue. Swallows it in a gulp. It's enough for him. He turns to me and suddenly I am arrived, beside him, languishing alongside my precious, perfect pond and the world's tiniest toad. He smiles, half a wing dangling from his taut lips. All bristles, veins, and membranes. I smile back, all pointy yellowing teeth and these unruly blue-gray eyes, mirror opposite of myopic, never able to truly see what's right in front of me.

In the dream, the dream I have with or without you asleep beside me in my bed, I see myself less clearly than I see the toad. But I do see myself, I'm always there, always trying. I tell the toad to watch for danger, to listen up. To hear the music. Try to teach him to brace for impact.

I see myself, and like the toad, I am perched atop a waterlily, waiting for life to begin. In the dream I comprehend so much. This cannot be my life. The toad looks at me and blinks, proud that his lessons are finally paying off.

I tilt back, allowing my gangly body to slip away from the lily pad, slipping sublimely down. Into the water I go, slumping and whooshing downward, tumbling effortlessly, not resisting, coiling into the cool water's gentle stranglehold. I dare not invest in flailing. What would be the point? There's no splash. No sound. No disturbance. Sinking, I slink and slump, drop and drift, fall and fall and fall, mesmerized. There is no end to the effortlessness of accepting the effortlessness of nothingness becoming nothing to me now.

Then I realize. It's not me whose arms outstretch, ornamental sacrifice, awash in hand-me-down robes, soaping my liar's skin in this small town pond. It's not me, living a foolish life carved of earth's weeds and seeds, barley, corn, rye, and wheat. It's not me who calls indifference a crown. I'll not live, a bloody sacrifice on the alter of my youth.

It's you. It's always been you. You're drowning. Because you choose to. And I cannot save you. All my love, it cannot save you.

I startle. No alarm awakens me. I've awoken myself. I've snapped out of this dream, this nightmare. And reality hits. All I've been denying.

I fumble for the light switch. Dash to throw on an old tee, those cut-off shorts you said fit me perfectly, once, and my Converse high tops. Grab a few things from the bowl sat atop our dining table, and I run. I run flat out until I find you. Where you always are. Where you live now. Where your life takes off in the wee hours. Without me. With blind indifference clinging like your choices.

You're there. At the corner store. Buying another bottle. Jack or Jim.

You kind of see me when you spot me, but kind of don't. I'm out of context here. This is your world. And you can have it.

I find your palm, return your ring, and with a kiss upon your cheek my last bittersweet tears shed a final good-bye. This time, I truly mean it.

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Copyright © 05/24/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.