Buried in the Dream

It’s so stuffy in here, and the baby lying on top of me is sweaty and hot. Barry’s curls are damp against my collarbones, but he feels dry when I run a finger along the edge of his diaper.

Ouch! What? I hit my hand on something – what is that above us? Dammit. Now I’ve hit my head on it. It’s so constricted in here; I can barely move.

The baby’s whimpering now. “I’m sorry, Barry, Mommy’s sorry,” I whisper, trying to calm him in raspy mumbles. His damp hair brushes my neck as he turns his head. Uh-oh, he’s trying to get into the crawl position on my stomach and chest. “Honey, wait, let Mommy sit up.” His knees are burrowing into my abdomen, and it’s very uncomfortable. “Oh, don’t cry, it’s okay.”

Bang! I rub his little head as he bellows when the bang to his head registers. What is happening? Why can’t I sit up?

I’m lying on a soft, cushioned pillow, and beside me, it feels like satin; soft, silky, pleasant. My hand can only move a few inches from my side, and my fingers rub the same material. I lift my dominant hand over my head, elbow bent, and feel satin above on a …. roof? What the hell?

I hear voices speaking in hushed tones. Is it hushed, or does it sound that way because maybe I’m in a soundproof room?

Sobbing. Some are sobbing.

My throat hurts like a strep infection. I can’t swallow without extreme effort, and it’s excruciating. Do I have strep? Tonsillitis? Please, don’t let it be that, and don’t let Barry get sick. I put a hand on his lower back as he rocks on his knees on my abdomen. I gently push his bottom, hoping he will lie down again.

It’s getting harder to breathe, and I feel his chest moving quickly as he begins to pant. What the hell kind of bed is this? I stick my elbows out sharply, contacting soft fabric that indents but is framed by a hard side. I hold Barry and roll to my side to investigate. Cocking my elbow back, I slam my fist into the side. Unable to rise to my knees, I aim a kick upward with one foot and hit something hard. Perspiring heavily from that small effort, I hear Barry whimpering. I roll onto my back, pulling him flat, and hum his favorite song. He giggles, pulling my hair with his fist, but then begins banging his head upward onto my chin. Pushing his face to the side, I put my forearm over my face for protection from his baby onslaught.

He sleeps, and as I feel myself drift off, that jerky movement of bodies happens. Like you’re flying or falling. Barry snores softly, his little body sweaty, hair in wet ringlets, and I feel a bit of dampness from his diaper. Not sure if it’s sweat or if he urinated, I just pat his back soothingly, waiting. Waiting, for what? Rescue? To wake up? I don’t know what bed I’m in or if I am dreaming.

People are still talking and sobbing. “HELP!” I scream and then grab my throat. It wasn’t a scream; just a vacant attempt from my raw throat. It hurts terribly now, and I can barely swallow from the pain. I don’t want to swallow. My head is throbbing, and my ear aches. I must find someone to help me get up. Bring me ice for my throat and mouth.

It’s so dark, and a new betrayal begins. My body itches all over, in places I am unable to scratch, and Barry is thrashing on top of me.

Wait, how can we be moving? My head is rocking side to side from pain. I hit the side again with my elbow and keep banging on it.

I hear a loud voice: “I have to see them. I don’t care! It’s my right to see them!”

My ears ring with clicking and clanging noises that echo in this chamber.

Sudden, bright lights scorch my eyes; voices stun my ears, no longer hushed, but in screams.

I gently push Barry aside and lift an arm. I hear my mother’s voice, “Jeannetta!” I am lifted upward into my husband Edward’s arms, Barry into Mom’s arms.

“They’re alive!” Edward shouts.

I look and see my father’s 2-by-2-foot pinkish-gray granite gravestone and a large hole beside it. Majestic oak trees dot the cemetery overlooking our town’s river. A tent covers the hole and the bronze casket in which Barry and I had been enclosed. A baby with his mother almost buried alive.

Edward is shouting at the funeral director, and my mother can’t stop wailing. Bouquets of white, yellow, and orange daylilies are arranged in the matching granite vase on Daddy’s grave. Behind him, I see memorial vases filled with fresh bunches of roses and carnations in pink, red, and white on several graves. A breeze brings their scent and tickles my nostrils. The black funeral hearse is parked at the end of the row of graves.

“I don’t know how this happened. She was dead, and so was the baby. The doctor signed the death certificate.” The funeral director's voice drops, but I can still hear him over the roaring pain in my ears. “Suffocation of the baby and strangulation of the mother. We didn’t embalm them, per your wife’s instructions in her will.”

“Good fucking thing you didn’t, you idiot!” Edward shouted.

Didn’t embalm them, he said, per my instructions.

Daddy’s idea, in his last letter to me.

I stare at his grave, and my eyes shift to my mom as I hold my arms out to gather my baby boy.

💐

Copyright © 6/8/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin. Thanks for stopping by! 😃 If you like ♡ my scribbles, hit the subscribe button. Please consider leaving a comment. ✍️❤️