First Person Dream

You were vexed with your father this morning because he woke you from a dream in which you were a flying dog.

Dada woke me from a really good dream, you cry, yanking the comforter over your head.

I peel the covers back and ask, Maybe you could draw this flying dog for me, so I can better imagine it?

My question enrages you. Your feet tantrum your feet, but there’s ten extra pounds of winter blanket on the bed and you’re little legs can’t sustain the weight. Your burst from the sheets, green eyes glowing, your cheeks flaming.

Mama! you snap, hands on your hips. It was a first person dream. I can’t draw myself because I can’t SEE myself, duh!

I swallow laughter. Pull open the blinds.

Well, damn, I say. How were the tops of the trees?

You howl with indignation and dive back into the bed, yanking the comforter over your head. I tie my robe and head downstairs - give you a little space to cool your jets. In the kitchen, your father sits at the table, a Christmas Jazz playlist offering merciless tidings. My favorite mug is full of freshly-pressed coffee.

I hover at the kitchen counter, preparing oatmeal with maple syrup, cinnamon, extra cream. I can track the path of your feet above my head, the opening and closing of the bathroom’s pocket door, the drawers of your pine dresser slapping shut as you choose your flamboyance for the day.

Joy surges up my neck when you start down the stairs. You stop at the bottom step to scowl at your dad.

I can’t help it - laughter shoots from every hole in my face.

You’re an absolutely brat sometimes, I say, reaching over your shoulders to pull you close, my nose buried in your hair. You let me kiss your flaming cheeks five times, each side, and eat your oatmeal while sitting in my lap, the canopy of tree tops stretching green and forever.