Frost

It was just a dream

Eleven Years Later

I woke up with a start. I began to gasp for breath. It wasn’t a scary dream at all. No, it was a dream filled with happiness and joy, things I hadn’t really experienced during when I was a child. The dream was so real that I had to convince myself that it wasn’t a memory, since my mind always wanted to place it as such. I gave myself a small laugh and shook my head.

“God, I hadn’t had that dream in a while.”

 I thought to myself as I got out of bed and started gathering what I would wear today.

After a bit of thinking, I chose some dark jeans, boots, a long sleeve shirt, and a black military peacoat. I went to the small bathroom that was mine and washed my face. I looked in the mirror for a while to stare at my reflection. I had long brown hair, which I began to braid. My face was pretty, but not a show stopper, I had some freackles that danced across my cheeks and nose but weren’t noticeable, my lips were a natural pale pretty pink. But it was my eyes that often made people think that I was a freak; they were a kelidoscope of blue,grey and green. My eyes were usually blue or green but during the fall and winter they would be either blue or grey and during the spring, they would be grey or green. Summer my eyes danced between green or blue but they settled for green most often. I soon got dressed and added a hat, scarf and a pair of gloves, for it was very cold in Frysta during the winter.

Frysta was the town that I lived in. It was not so much a small town yet it wasn’t a whooping large one either. I remember when I had to do a project on Frysta that it means “Frozen” in Swedish, despite the fact that we did not live in Sweden. And we were surrounded by miles of forrest, creeks, streams, medows. It was the most beautiful place on Earth.

Anyway, I went down stairs to the kitchen where my grandmother was, fixing some tea. I loved her dearly and she was gentle, kind, and very wise. She was very pretty with steel grey hair and bright blue eyes.

“Good morning, grandma.” I greeted her.

“Top of the morning to ya.” She responded. She was a hundred percent Irish and was proud of the fact. My father had been Russian, hence my name, Anya.

“What did you dream about?” she asked me in her Irish accent. I thought about lying to her about the dream but I knew that I couldn’t lie. One, I was a terrible lieer and two, she could spot a lie a mile away. So in the end I told her the dream though she had heard me talk about it at least a thousand times.

“You miss them, don’t you? It was a hard time Anya, a time that you had to grow up fast.” My grandma said softly.

When I was seven years old, my father died in a terrible accident that resulted from a part of the forest that caught on fire. I remember how it tore my family apart. My Russian grandparents had provided for us for a while but later they too, past away. My dear Irish grandfather died when I was eight and when I was nine my mother died as well, from, later I was told, committing suicide. I remember trying in vain to talk, reach, my mother but she was in a place so far away that she could not come out. My brother Hans left for college when I was five, and then he moved away, to L.A. He hardly ever visits and the last we heard from him was six months ago. I loved my brother dearly but he made me so angry sometimes that I wanted to punch him or at least slap him for being selfish-for leaving me here.

“Anya, eat your breakfast please, and hurry. You don’t want to be late for school, young lady.” Grandma reminded me. I nodded and ate my breakfast. She chuckled.

“Ah, Anya. You grew up to be a beautiful young lady of only 16 years.” She sighed walking out. After I was done I placed the dishes in the dish washer and went to the door and grabbed my things for school.