Dreama’s Diary–June 2
My name is Dreama Avalon, originally Pearl. My mother thought it was cute. “Dream a pearl,” she would tell me, “And keep it sacred.” I don’t know what that means. I really don’t. She is the one who is an artist in love with symbols, not me. She says I need to read between the lines more, that I don’t see what is really going on. Maybe she’s right. I can’t always handle what I see.
Oh, well. I don’t have time today for nonsense. I’m about to go to work. The Gourmet-to-Go is an okay job. The people are nice, especially one in particular. I try not to think about him, but it is no use. My mind drifts back to Stefan Hill. He’s just a customer. I don’t even know him well.
Why must obsession plague me? I can’t stop it. I’m driven by my haunted mind as if the elusive scenes flashing before it are creating a false world from which I’m neither permitted to enter nor escape. It simply compels me to drown in daydreams of the flesh, robbing my senses of the pleasure of real life. I have to stop and turn away. I can no longer bear the thoughts of his fingers trailing down my spine or his moist lips on the back of my neck.
It is still early and I’m tired. I shouldn’t be thinking of such things. I want to be positive and embrace every fleeting trace of peace. My husband gives me gentle nudges to appreciate such things, especially the power of the rising sun, which we greet together. He is good to me. I try so hard to see the first pink glow of the morning sky. There is something about dawn that grabs my hurting soul and cradles it with hope. It is like having someone finally hold you and you cry like the lost child you are inside, and for the moment, all the pain and doubt fades to understanding. But, like all things, the day goes on and you forget. There’s always tomorrow, I guess.
Yesterday, I was making eggs and I broke one that was tinged with blood. Maybe it was an omen. The yolk was a golden orb, like the sun, and the reddish stain mournfully drifted with the egg whites to the sides of the bowl, creating an imitation of the morning sky. Henry snuck up behind me as I contemplated the universe within my green bowl and he snuggled with me, bathed in the fragile light of the morning. In silence, we greeted the day with cautious reverence, not quite sure what it would bring. But, for a moment, I could see that all was perfect. I didn’t want it to end.
Like most days, Henry headed off to the shipyard in his old Ford and I was left to brew in my insecurities. I wondered if he would get laid off again or if the truck would finally break down. Then I went across the street. Either my neighbor, Lou Anne, or my mother watches the baby. My job is a chance to see how other people live, but I’m always happy to come home to kind Henry and our baby Ana. She clings to me with her blonde head nestled under my chin. Her gray eyes beg me to know what is important and not to falter. I scream inside. I don’t want to fail.