First Person Dream

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

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

I peel the covers back and ask gently, Do you think you could draw this wolf for me?

My question is apparently enraging, and your feet are kicking in an instant tantrum. But there’s ten extra pounds of winter blanket and you can’t sustain the weight. Your torso bursts forth, green eyes glowing, cheeks flaming pink.

Mama! you snap, your entire body vibrating, It was a first person dream. I can’t DRAW myself because I can’t SEE myself, duh!

I open the blinds. Swallow laughter.

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

You howl with indignation and retract into the covers, and I scoot out before you burst from your den. In the kitchen, your father sits at the table, a playlist called Christmas Jazz giving merciless tidings, my favorite mug steaming with black coffee.

I grab the coffee and 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, scowling.

I can’t help it. Laughter shoots from all holes in my face.

You’re such a pain in the butt sometimes, I say, my arms reaching past your shoulders, my nose buried your hair. And I’m the luckiest mom in the world.

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 for forever.