I wrote this because this week’s prompt spoke to me, and because I told MJ Polk that I might write something. So here it is. ;)
This story was inspired by
It’s all a dream she thought.
Sitting on the couch on a cold, windy day, keeping her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, a blanket covering her feet, she thought back how her feet and hands were always cold, even when she was a little girl. She thought of the room she shared with her mother and how she sneaked into her bed at night for a little bit, sticking her legs to her mom’s partly for fun, because she always made those funny noises, partly because they were cold.
Her mother, yes. She’s given up so much for her. She exchanged her dreams of becoming a dress designer for dressing her little girl. She even said that a few times: “I am so happy that I had a girl, because I can dress you so pretty!” And she thought her mother needed a doll and not a daughter. She felt guilty for not liking all the dresses and skirts and trousers she made for her, she wanted what other kids had, not what her mother made. She dreamed about things that were out of reach. Oh, that was such a long time ago, in a far away country, maybe wasn’t even true, or was it?
Looking around the room, listening to the grandfather clock tick-tocking away… Yes, time goes fast. Wasn’t it just yesterday, when she laid in her bed back home and dreamed of building a beautiful house in the back of the property for herself? She imagined staying at home. Each day she dreamed, worked on the details until her eyelids became too heavy and she fell asleep just to continue dreaming of a nicer future for herself the next day. She still can see the pictures clearly.
How funny, she thought, all these pictures of her old dreams now appearing in front of her eyes and then, when she was young she saw herself as old. Imagined herself being surrounded by kids, asking her about her past, asking her to tell stories. And she had plenty of those.
Now, her hair is gray, the skin on her hands wrinkled and thin like paper, but the spark in her eyes are just as present as it was all those years ago.. And she is happy to tell them stories when they ask. Oh, she had a beautiful life, she thought. She fixed the blanket on her lap, leaned back on her couch and smiled. She was happy sitting there, holding her cup of tea. Continued daydreaming with a smile on her face.
Was it serendipity? Was it fate? What was it? Was it some magic that has driven her this way? She remembered her father. He was tall and good looking, but not quite a family man. She remembered her great aunt, how everyone loved her, how even her dad listened to her, when he wasn’t known to listen to anyone. And that certainly was magic. She had such a way with words.
And words were something that it seemed everyone loved on that side of the family. That love is in her blood, running in her veins, right under that paper thin skin of her hands. She can see the blue ink running through them. And the itching in her fingertips. How many keys has she hit since she learned typing? Millions, must be millions of letters. These old fingers did pretty well and that made her laugh out loud. No, it didn’t happen by chance. It was her destiny. Must have been. And who can go against such a thing?
She now remembered Aunt Mary’s baking and cooking and her own great grandmother, who was a tiny little woman, skinny in dark clothes and very quiet and smelled old. She could still feel the smell. And now, she thought, does she smell like that, too? Well, not just yet. She still had so many stories she needed to tell. About life, about her dreams, about adventures, about heartache, about starting over. How many times? She stopped counting a long time ago. After a while it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that she had all these stories and she wasn’t alone. She had her family near her. People who saw her and adored her and for whom she was grateful.
She looked at the old typewriter a few feet away from her, on the table. She bought it at a yard sale many years ago because it reminded her of her grandfather. Right next to that was her laptop and since her fingers were now warm enough, it was time to fire it up and keep dreaming..
Yes! xx Keep dreaming! xxx
Harriet’s Keep Dreaming is like stepping into someone’s soul on a quiet afternoon. It’s not just a story it’s a memory wrapped in warmth, a life gently unfolding in front of us. The way she captures the small details a cold cup of tea, the tick of a clock, the ache of old dreams is so tender it almost feels like we’re sitting beside her. You can feel the love she carries for her mother, the bittersweet guilt, the longing, the gratitude. Her reflections are soft and unhurried, like someone finally making peace with time. And that typewriter, sitting nearby, is more than a tool it’s a witness to a life lived fully, with stories still waiting to be told.