I am in my parent's house.
I lived in this house since I was a little girl. It's walls have witnessed the ups and downs of my family since I was 5 years old. 33 Christmas mornings. 33 Easter egg hunts. 2 cases of the chicken pox. 96 birthdays combined. 2 weddings. 9 annual champaign baking days. 2 dogs. Countless arguments. Countless make-ups. It seems the math of it all could go on infinitely.
I walk down the stairs, freshly carpeted. My feet sink in not unlike the feeling of bare feet happily being submerged in dewy, benign blades of grass. I enter the kitchen and I am immediately confused. All the furniture has been removed except a sexy, black, baby grand piano. It has been hurriedly pushed up against the wall which used to house a white, pottery-barnish serving table. We don't own a baby grand. Where did it come from?
Mom is behind the counter busily working. I scan the family room to find the large, glass doors to the patio have been eliminated. A pristine, white wall is left in its place. Flushed with the ceiling is a row of giant, empty shadow boxes. I am not sure if they have been installed improperly or perhaps the job was left unfinished because they are uneven and hanging precariously. I am sure this is driving my mom crazy but she seems unaffected as she attends to her kitchen business.
I walk over to her. I am eager to discuss the topic of my new haircut. It's short. REALLY short. She hands me a mirror and the shortness of it all is reflected back to me. I kind of like it. It's only about an inch long, sticking out all around my head. It's fresh. Punkish even. Then SHE walks in. A nameless beauty with long, flowing dark locks. Her hair falls down to the middle of her back, exactly where mine did until about 30 seconds ago. I am immediately drowning in regret, I can't breathe. Mom tries to calm me but I am already running out the front door, crumbling into a sobbing pile on the front stoop.
My tears of regret quickly turn into tears of grief. My mom is gone. Gone.
The neighbors are walking up their drive and the father spots me in my crumpled heap. He herds his clan my way and helps the two younger ones up onto the porch. He offers me his condolences and is uncomfortably jovial as he does so. Then he takes out a home video. He thinks it will cheer me up. I reluctantly agree to watch, more so because I don't have the energy it would take to protest.
The viewing begins and I am surprised to see it is of my parents. At first I am struck by the weirdness of this man having this video in his possession. I am not even sure I know his name. Next, I am shocked at the intimacy of this video. My parents are playing in a claw foot bathtub. It's very discreet but I mean they ARE in a bathtub together.
My mom is radiant. Her body is absolutely gorgeous. Not a hollywoodized version of herself but the real deal. She must be in her early twenties. Her image reminds me of a black and white photo I have of her and me from when I was a baby (see above photo). In fact, it's as if she was transported from that photo, disrobed and submerged in this bath of bubbles. Her hair is cut short and it is dark, thick and shiny. Lustrous really. It bounces healthy and effortlessly as she rises and falls from beneath the water. Her teeth are perfect. They always were. Here they are strong, white and shiny. Bubbles are sliding along her velvety blanket of skin. She is alive with laughter even though there is no audio. It is one of those old, grainy, black and white home videos. The ones that sing of nostalgia and contentment. That is what she is. Content. You can see it in the way she playfully wrestles with my dad, the way they banter with their bodies, the way they are smiling, the way......
And then I wake up.
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