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(Bad) Dream
By Stephanie Kemp
(Bad) Dream
By Stephanie Kemp
A Trip.
Everyone pretending it’s not Covid.
I don’t want to be here.
A Party is happening before a parade, or possibly, a coronation.
(In real life I have just finished Season 3 of The Crown.)
I don’t want the wine, or even the champagne off the tray. (This is unlike me. I wish I would’ve caught this false detail and woken myself up, like I usually do - usually can.)
I want my back to work. I don’t like the way the pain meds fill my head with needles and knives. (In real life I blew out my back last Tuesday.)
A Friend’s New Baby. Something horribly wrong. No one acknowledges any of the wrong. (In real life I am worried about the babies.)
I am trying to hold the baby, but it is twisting its sharp bones wiggling to get out of my arms.
I can’t hold on to the baby without my back snapping in two. I (think I) choose the baby but it doesn’t matter. I see that it has metal braces on its gums before it falls to the floor.
I somehow manage to catch it with my foot.
Unharmed. (In real life I would never be wearing this type of shoe.)
Face down.
A tiny bald spot in the back makes me wonder if a helmet would help.
Anything.
I am able to somehow get the baby safely onto the changing table,
knowing it will never be safe.
My friend stands next to me. She doesn’t trust me anymore.
And she knows I saw the braces.
She waits for me to say something recognizable, as the real me.
I don’t.
I can’t.
(In real life I am also trying to find recognizable things to say.)
I look at her as I hold her baby’s slippery legs in the air, ready to change his (?) diaper.
When I look back down, the baby is gone.
We look everywhere. Can’t find the baby.
My friend and I are both crying.
My back snaps and for a minute I think it has fixed itself until I realize that I am curled in the fetal position, but still standing.
This, I know, is permanent.
My crooked eye spots my friend, who looks like she is growing out of the wall, holding her baby.
“You did this to yourself,” she says as she steps through an open window, into a cloud somewhere over Italy.
(In real life I was supposed to go to Italy last summer.)
________
In real life (at least as far as the Crown will take me), I am looking forward to the arrival of Margaret Thatcher.
This is also a detail worthy of challenge.
Everyone pretending it’s not Covid.
I don’t want to be here.
A Party is happening before a parade, or possibly, a coronation.
(In real life I have just finished Season 3 of The Crown.)
I don’t want the wine, or even the champagne off the tray. (This is unlike me. I wish I would’ve caught this false detail and woken myself up, like I usually do - usually can.)
I want my back to work. I don’t like the way the pain meds fill my head with needles and knives. (In real life I blew out my back last Tuesday.)
A Friend’s New Baby. Something horribly wrong. No one acknowledges any of the wrong. (In real life I am worried about the babies.)
I am trying to hold the baby, but it is twisting its sharp bones wiggling to get out of my arms.
I can’t hold on to the baby without my back snapping in two. I (think I) choose the baby but it doesn’t matter. I see that it has metal braces on its gums before it falls to the floor.
I somehow manage to catch it with my foot.
Unharmed. (In real life I would never be wearing this type of shoe.)
Face down.
A tiny bald spot in the back makes me wonder if a helmet would help.
Anything.
I am able to somehow get the baby safely onto the changing table,
knowing it will never be safe.
My friend stands next to me. She doesn’t trust me anymore.
And she knows I saw the braces.
She waits for me to say something recognizable, as the real me.
I don’t.
I can’t.
(In real life I am also trying to find recognizable things to say.)
I look at her as I hold her baby’s slippery legs in the air, ready to change his (?) diaper.
When I look back down, the baby is gone.
We look everywhere. Can’t find the baby.
My friend and I are both crying.
My back snaps and for a minute I think it has fixed itself until I realize that I am curled in the fetal position, but still standing.
This, I know, is permanent.
My crooked eye spots my friend, who looks like she is growing out of the wall, holding her baby.
“You did this to yourself,” she says as she steps through an open window, into a cloud somewhere over Italy.
(In real life I was supposed to go to Italy last summer.)
________
In real life (at least as far as the Crown will take me), I am looking forward to the arrival of Margaret Thatcher.
This is also a detail worthy of challenge.