At All Cost

At All Cost

Why had she done it; abruptly cut away, with blunt scissors, her elegant golden waves groomed since her early teens with obsession, counting inches not unlike a miser counting money. She had striped it black and white; its short stiff spikes standing erect as a skunk’s tail during combat. I could smell my own distaste, disappointment and motherly urge to tut tut rising thick in my throat like wads of wet cash, yet somehow, I swallowed dry-mouthed, depositing my concern.

My daughter’s choice of clothing made no sense. Normally Tabitha, in her mid-twenties, wasn’t glitter despite her golden outlook. She leaned introverted, a reader, thinker and observer of life’s simple treasures, frugal too, choosing blouses of pale peaches and dusts from thrift stores over rainbow hues and pigments. To my mind’s eye, she looked princess like, her fresh, flawless complexion and contented smile center focus, never adorned with fancy frocking or false pretense. Tabby was down to earth, solid, my reliable touch stone who stuck to the facts. She was pure.

Who then was this new child brandishing this contrary mammalian hairdo? Why couldn’t this bizzarro conversion stop at her neck? I forced myself to keep looking. Tabitha was adorned in polyester blooms of every color, prompting me to search out my sunglasses from the depths of my over-sized black bag, perfect for robbing banks, that I was unaccustomed to lugging around; my eyes straining to make out the desired cool rectangular block from the others, all mysteriously out of reach, while burning and battling the relentless intensity I felt, magnified by the bright day. Even her shoes were discordant; lime green lace-ups with mismatched socks, several on each foot.

What did it all mean? Why was no one else starring? Not even Tabitha’s identical twin sister appeared to notice. Odd. Spring was laughing lightly having shared an inside joke with her soon to be boyfriend. I couldn’t tell how he was reacting; he was in shadow beneath a money tree, except somehow, I knew that Spring held no more unmentionable surprises. I wanted to join her, and stand under the tree, alongside her happiness, her wealth of surety and calm, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move towards her, choosing instead to punish myself, physically isolated, emotionally impoverished, to stand there alone off balance, steeping in motherly worry. Where were my sunglasses? I couldn’t see.

All the other faces at the apparent party were busy, bleeding into each other like a bad trip. I couldn’t know anyone else. Now I needed to move towards Tabitha, to touch her and make sure that she was solid, but my thighs felt numb and leaded. My skirt seemed to wrap itself around me like shackles and the ground beneath me glued my bare feet in place. I hoped that there were no stingers in the blades as I pressed against the air, chin forward, hell bent on making my way through the pointless crowd, releasing my arm from the weight of my bag, hoping that my wallet was safe, yet knowing that it wasn’t.

Slowly, one incremental step at a time, I aimed towards my daughter, shouting her name silently, trying to create a lifeline between us to hook her attention so she would see me, recognize my desperation and acknowledge my worth, my love for her. I existed! I missed her so much! It had been too long. In that bankrupt moment, nothing was clear to me, except that I needed to suck in air and lift myself out of the mire and reach my girl.

...Then I woke up!

...Yikes!

Grabbing blindly in the dark with my closest hand, I reached for my little black book and pencil while gently releasing my aching legs from Lilly Cat’s purring warmth. Slowly, I sat half-way up, wet with fever and brain fog, disappointed to acknowledge my ever-pounding headache. I tried to focus. I was determined to scribble down the receding details of yet another wackadoddle Covid 19 dream. Maybe someday, if I lived through 2020, I would write about it, maybe even start a second career as an author or even win a writing contest. Twenty thousand would help pay off the furlough induced dept, don’t you think?