Living Dreams

Forever to Waste

I see a barren wasteland in front of me. The stillness is haunting. The air is warm, not a single breath of wind. Vegetation scattered here and there. Dust edges its way between my toes. This damp air suffocates me. The atmosphere begins to whisper. Apparitions appear before me, young and free. Ghosts with doting eyes dance around me, delighted by the death bestowed upon them. I want to join them. Run away with them. Dance and sing with them. But then I feel one spirit sweep past me and my eyes shoot open.

I am lying in bed with the sheets tickling my toes, my cousins all sound asleep next to me, stirring with fluttering eyelids as dreams dance overhead.

Suddenly, my cousins and I all race from the beds and crowd into closets and bathrooms. We become nothing but animals scrapping for a hairbrush or a pair of matching shoes. We can't afford to have our own wardrobes. We must all share.

I elbow my way to the sink, brush out my blond hair and wash my face. I practice a smile in the mirror before hurrying back to my bed to gather my belongings for school. You have to sleep with your backpack so others don't steal your homework.

I make my way downstairs, sidestepping past uncles and aunts and more cousins and grandparents. In the living room, most of the grandparents are gathered on chairs and couches. One of the grandparents with at least nine 'greats' sits with her back straight and her elbows tucked against her sides in order to make room for everyone. She is around three hundred and fifty years of age but her skin is crisp and clear, not wrinkled, and her eyes a vibrant green, not faded. She looks as though she is around twenty years old.

I make my way over to the kitchen with more sidestepping past family until I see my mother standing over the stove. There is a huge pot that I could sit in and it is filled to the brim with scrambled eggs. Beside it is another pot the same size filled to the brim with oatmeal and another with boiling water. There is a spoon for each one and my mother is stirring the eggs gently.

"Happy birthday, Mercia!" Excitement barely pierces through the fatigue veiling her eyes like sweet sunlight through thick forest trees.

I don't see why a birthday is a point of congratulations. I didn't do anything; I was just born. And I'm sixteen today. That number sends chills down my spine.

"Are you ready for your party tonight?" I don't know how she gets to be so enthusiastic in the morning. And at her age, birthdays mean nothing because nothing changes. A grandma and a granddaughter look no different; age doesn't matter.

"I guess so." My voice is hoarse as I speak. I rub my tired eyes and yawn.

"How did you sleep?"

"I slept well. I had a dream we all died."

My mother makes a face. "Those books of yours have gone to your head," she mutters.

I don't argue; she's right. My books are getting into my head. And I allow them to.

I amble to the end of the driveway. The school bus pulls up just as I reach the street that glistens from last night's rain. I climb on and scrunch in next to a group of girls on the floor. We do not have seats. We have the grimy, muddy floor. There are simply too many people to have seats. I place my backpack onto my lap, unzip it, and pull out one of my books. I open it and flip through the pages to the bookmark. This is the story of the Tudors in England. I cannot help but marvel with wide eyes at the deaths of these kings and queens. Their lives taken by the hands of political intrigue, murder, illness, love, by something so simple and yet so intangible as aging. Perfectly short life spans they had. These deaths may have been painful but still . . . death. Queen Elizabeth I ruled until she died at the age of seventy in 1603. Seventy. That seems like a good age to die. No one else thinks so though.