The Dreams We Keep - EDITING

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

FEBRUARY

Tick, Tock.

Tick, Tock.

Tick, Tock.

The clock over the small wooden table in our kitchen reads 1:13 p.m. and my mom still has not come out of her bedroom. It's been like this for 287 days, but who's counting?

I drain the rest of my black coffee, savoring the heady brew on my tongue, the warm liquid igniting my caffeine addicted taste buds into a glorious frenzy. Setting the empty mug down on the water-ring stained table, I throw my head in my hands, sighing as I try to rationalize how I got to where I am today.

I never asked for this life. If it were up to me, I would be living an entirely different existence. One that was more carefree and maybe even reckless. Perhaps I'd be out on school nights like my classmates, drinking cheap beer out of red solo cups in crowded hormone-infused frat houses, dating boys who have relatively good taste in music and share a love of the night sky and sunrises over the ocean. In this existence, I'm not giving a damn about real life responsibilities. About past due medical bills and threats of evictions.

But alas, here I am... 19 years old and barely thriving. A recent high school graduate turned caretaker of my mentally ill mother.

My days are spent tending to our clapboard ranch-style house, with its dilapidated siding from New York's harsh winters, cracked pavement, and thin, lead painted windows that do very little to keep the cold out and the heat in. This old house has seen better days, but I refuse to give up on it. This home is all I've ever known. It's kept me and my family warm in the harshest of conditions, kept us dry during summer thunderstorms, and kept me safe when nightmares come knocking. It's full of so many good memories. So instead of giving up, I tend to it as best I can - with as little money as possible - sealing leaks, replacing rusted hardware, and patching up rotted wood with scraps I found discarded by the Lumber Mill. Fixing, just like my Daddy taught me.

When I'm not cleaning or repairing our small home, I'm caring for my mom, helping her bathe and dress, combing her hair and brushing her teeth, cooking boxed dinners that my meager Bookstore salary can provide, and trying to remind her that despite everything we've been through, I'm still here and I still love her.

Work.

Clean.

Cook.

Check on mom.

Repeat.

Sometimes it feels as if that's all my life will ever be. On bad days, I get stuck in this rut of thinking... thinking that everything good in my life has been torched, set aflame until all that's left is charred memories. I try not to let these thoughts overcome me. I try to push through, to keep hope alive. Because if not, then what is there to live for? I've seen dark days. I've lived through nightmares. I don't want to go back to that, so I keep moving forward, even if it's baby steps.

My only reprieve is through music. If I'm not playing music, then I'm blasting it through my headphones, humming while my fingers tap to the rhythm, itching to play along with the melody. Each day, after my shift ends at the Bookstore and all the chores are done and my mom is fed and tucked in bed, Family Feud blaring on her bedroom TV, I stow away in my small bedroom, spending countless hours with my beloved cello, Winnie - a name my Daddy insisted was perfect for the hand carved maple instrument. A Winnie for my Pooh Bear, he had said as he leaned in and kissed my forehead, his breath sweet from the vanilla creme cake we just devoured on my 9th birthday. To this day, Winnie has been the best gift I could've ever asked for.