Mistaken Identity

Mistaken Identity

I am the woman with the dark hair peppered with gray, with the green-brown hazel eyes of her father and the teardrop eyebrows and smile of her mother. I am this body with its long piano fingers that never learned to dance across the keys and with these legs that ran mile after mile. I am the one who dedicated her work to helping others succeed, mostly following the rules, doing the hard work. I am the one who owns the red bike she never rides anymore, who drives the little silver car she named Suzy, who lives in the brown house near the end of the cul-de-sac, who sleeps and walks beside the dog-, sweets-, genealogy-loving man who fills her heart.

I am the one who dreamed that she was rearranging the furniture in the living room and moving plants around the house. I was tired. Oh. So. Tired. 

When I finally let go into a deep sleep, I dreamed of a child touching everything in a toy shop and a mother caressing the arm of a girl in a white dress, of fire emanating heat and water flowing over skin, of a wound healing and scars melting to precious pink, of dew drops dissolving into the prairie grass and rain soaking into dust dry earth, of wind whispering to the trees and mist rolling through a valley, of incense wafting through the air and the energy of the moon touching everything in the dark. 


I who woke up and saw that who I am is invisible to my eyes. 

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