My mother is peeling tangerines in the hut. Her fingers are rough, tough skin rippling and folding into each other, a collision of youth and age with years of labour. Her thumb is tinged with orange, airbrushed on the edges of her nails, slightly extending to her skin. She sets a segment down, adding to the growing pile on the plate beside her, and grabs another tangerine. She takes it and pierces her thumb on the top where the stem once was, my eyes following the drop of juice flowing down her hand. She lifts part of the skin, twists the tangerine, and peels it all at once in a spiral ring. I trace the gentle hold of her hands on the skin. Her fingers carefully split the fruit into pieces, a soft and fragile cradle.
I blink, unintentionally letting out a yawn. A sudden heaviness weighs down my eyelids. I lift my head from my mother’s lap, gather my hair on one side of my shoulder, and lie back down, adjusting to a new angle. I gaze at the window and feel small splinters of the hut’s wood prickling my arm. I stare, bored and used to the sight that greets me. Branches subtly sway with the breeze. Leaves descend to the ground, unseen in the frame that the window captures from the inside. Glimpses of sunlight that breach through the protective cover of the trees. I try and fail to avoid them, wincing at how I’m blinded every time. I rub my eyes, willing away the sparkles of colours I see.
“Are you sleepy?” My mother hums and asks with a smile.
I nod, blinking slowly. It’s the direct effect the sun has on me, after all.
She threads her fingers through my hair, tenderly scratching my scalp and untangling any knots as I feel myself sinking more and more into slumber. “Take a nap.”
With my mother’s laboured hands on my scalp, the pile of tangerines around us, its tangy aroma wafting in the air, and the glimmering sun, I let myself be pulled into what awaits me in unknown realms.
Anything can happen in my dreams. I can be a mere fish in an aquarium, part of a large school swimming and dancing in elegant swirls — a force that outshines those with colourful gills and the sight of which impresses children watching from below the tank. Or maybe I was one of the children, so entranced and captivated by the shapes formed by a collection of small creatures that I began to think of myself as part of it. But that’s the thing — I never remember my dreams properly.
In my dreams, I am everyone and everything. Anything can happen. Anything can appear. My imagination and dreams bleed into each other, turning into a coalition of film rolls playing out a messy plot on the projector. One big adventure with no sense, no rhyme or reason. Adventures that are only high in adrenaline and the desire to be free.
However, in this one, it seems that I’m only myself and that leaves me a little disappointed.
What lies beyond me is a vast green expanse. I’m surrounded by tall grasses that reach my waist, petals that softly graze my skin, and the sound of fluttering bugs crawling or flying about. In this meadow, all around me are lifeforms. Hesitantly, I take a step, feeling the dirt beneath me move around.
A hand gently grasps mine. My gaze finds my mother’s. She smiles at me as she kneels down, and I realize that my view of the world is short and limited, not quite as broad as it is outside this realm. My hand feels smaller in hers, more fragile and young.
“Why’d you wander off here?” She asks, patting my shoulders. I stare at her, apprehensive of the youth in her eyes and hands. Gone are the subtle wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the calluses barely moisturized by hand creams.
She waits for my response patiently.
I can’t seem to meet her gaze directly. I want to ask, “Why are you in my dream? Why are we back in this meadow?” But what comes out of my mouth is, “I saw a butterfly.”
“And? Where did it go?”
I shake my head to indicate my uncertainty. My mother lifts me up and hoists me against her waist. She plucks out a weed and tucks it behind my ear, smoothing out my hair. The plant is a deep orange, like the colour of the squash she would cut, quietly humming as the pot simmers behind her as she prepares dinner. Its petals are little clusters of five with a dot of yellow in the middle. I follow her hands that gently caress my cheeks.
“Maybe this way, they’ll come to you. Butterflies need the nectar it makes.”
“It’s okay if it doesn’t come back,” I say.
“Why not?”
“It’s more fun for me to chase them.”
“I used to chase butterflies in this meadow too, back when I was your age,” she says as we walk along the trail. “But I rarely saw them up close. Though I wanted to see their wings shine in the sun more.”
I nod, resting my head in the junction of her neck. The dirt beneath our feet scatters with each step we take. “I wish they wouldn’t leave right away, though.”
“That’s why I gave you the butterfly weed. To attract more of them.”
“I want to run after them a bit longer.”
“Is that so?” she asks, raising her brows.
I nod. “The sun and the flowers make their wings especially pretty. So I like looking at them from afar.”
“I know. Pretty things are easy to love after all,” she agrees. “Like you,” she adds, cheekily, as she pinches my nose.
I grumble, swatting her hand away. She laughs, bellyful and with glee.
“Why me?” I ask.
“Hm… because you’re my kind, wonderful daughter! Why do you think so?”
Image Source: Chloe Hand
I clutch my mom tighter, bury my neck in hers, and squeeze my eyes shut as they burn from the tears pooling in them, and I realize that this guttural feeling swirling in my stomach reaches me from somewhere outside of this realm. I think about how beautiful a butterfly’s life is, how easily their wings flutter in the sky. I don’t see what my mom sees. “I don’t know.”
One day, you’ll hatch because you’re hungry. Then, you’ll stuff yourself full of leaves while hanging upside down, and you’ll see the world that exists around you. You’ll see other caterpillars trying their best to bloom. Your wings will grow as freedom awaits you. Somewhere in the world, you’ll spread your wings and taste all the sweet nectar you haven’t before. And your life will occur just like that.
But sometimes you will be born feeling that you’re not meant for something greater.
In my dreams, I am anyone and anything. Here, I am a child in my mother’s hold with a butterfly weed tucked into my ear. Outside of my unconscious, I’m a speck of insignificant dust. I’m hanging upside down, hungry and desperate. I’m born with a desire to justify my existence and all the leaves I’ve eaten. I’m born with a craving for love and no pretty wings.
A loud, reverberating slam startles me awake. I sit up abruptly, and I’m greeted with a sight of freshly stained wood. My forehead feels a little numb, and my arms feel prickly. A protest bubbles in my throat as my temper rises. I turn my head to yell, my neck almost snapping, but whatever I want to lash out stays put in the tip of my tongue. My throat constricts, my mouth feels dry and I choke on my words. All I can do is gape at who’s across me because it’s—
My grandma. My grandma, whom I spent all my weekends with during elementary school. My grandma, whose funeral I couldn’t attend at the tail end of high school because I lived a continent away and my life was packed in my suitcase sitting in a lonely corner of a bedroom I didn’t see any part of myself in. I avert my eyes and purse my lips.
“Eat some fruits,” she says as she sits across from me, pretending she didn’t aggressively set down the fruit platter beside me. There’s the familiar mirth in her eyes, the look she’d have when she knew she caught me off guard. I fumble, grabbing the nearest apple slice and chomping on it. The sweet taste spreads on my tongue, fresh like the breeze on a sunny day, as I sit outside with a book on my lap, the tree shielding me from the heat of the sun.
This must be another part of my dream throughout my slumber. My grandma hums a melody as she grabs a bag of tangerines and starts peeling one. Like my mom, she pokes the top first where the green bud is, but instead of peeling the skin off in a spiral, she peels little segments resembling petals, turning the tangerine into a flower. Her hands are freckled, with dark brown spots scattered throughout her knuckles. Her skin is wrinkled yet soft, and her nails are neatly trimmed. Her veins are visible, like the white pith on tangerine segments.
My eyes flit over her figure and her smile, at the way it reveals a small sight of her teeth and a smidge of lipstick. I don’t see her in my dreams. I don’t quite remember her face either when I try to recall my memories with her. Perhaps it’s because my second chances exist in my dreams.
“You could’ve just put it down normally. Did you have to be so loud?” I grumble, fiddling with the tangerine.
“Were you just going to sleep through the whole afternoon then? Why don’t you do some studying?”
“I don’t want to,” I whine, slumping on the table and vigorously shaking my head. “I’m here because I wanna relax, you know?”
“You just want an excuse to slack off,” my grandma sneers. I clear my throat, guiltily looking to the side. “Your exams are coming up. Stop wasting time.”
“Studying now would just be a waste of effort anyway,” I retort.
“Because you’re moving soon?” she chuckles dryly, raising her brow.
“I’ll be fine as long as I pass, so why study now? The school year is almost over anyway,” I pout.
“You know you’ll regret it if you don’t study,” she warns.
“I’ll regret it if I leave,” I fire back.
Silence settles over us. My grandma’s hand stills. She looks up, and the humour in her eyes is gone. I instinctively straighten my back, tuck my hair behind my ear, and scramble for an explanation as I realize I bled on the floor so much that I let her pluck out the thorn on my side too easily.
“I don’t get why we have to move anyway. Mom and Dad are doing fine at their jobs, and I’m doing well in school,” I say lightly as if it’s the same thing as asking why I have to take these random vitamins she keeps buying too many bottles of. Packets of supplements she gets from her neighbours. Chewable multivitamins from the nearest pharmacy. I’m the healthiest person there is! She continues to peer at me, unamused that I thought I could escape her prying with jumbled half-truths.
“Why do we have to leave this all behind?” I say exasperatedly. “Because there’s better education there? So what? I can get that same education here,” disbelief contaminates my voice as I nearly yell.
“You know what I don’t get at all? Why do something you don’t like? Mom hates doing things that require too much effort. Packing? Moving halfway across the world? That’s the most effortful thing ever,” I scowl at the growing pile of tangerine segments on the fruit platter. “And this too,” I gesture widely, pointing an accusing finger at the plate before me like it’s the root of all my problems, “you hate peeling tangerines because it stains your fingers, so just stop it. There’s too much!”
“But they’re your favourite,” she insists, and my self-control must be rotting in my anger, as I harshly sneer, “So? I’ll peel them myself if I want to!”
“And… I just don’t want to leave you,” I breathe out.
“Silly child. I’ll always be here. Anytime you decide to come back,” she laughs, cradling my hand. Her skin is wrinkled while mine is soft. She exists in a memory in which I remember the room, what day it was, and the fruits she peeled and cut for me — but I’ve forgotten her face.
I rub the heels of my palms on my eyes, willing the frustration simmering in my gut to subside. She places a piece of tangerine at the very centre of the plate.
Image Source: Chloe Hand
“I peel these fruits, even ones that would stain my fingers, because I love you. You’re my grandchild, so of course I’d do whatever I can to make things less hard for you. It’s just what grandparents do.”
My lips tremble, and my throat burns. I slump back on my seat and bury my head in my arms. My hair shuts the light out as if I’m truly alone in a chamber of my own thoughts. But I couldn’t even come back for your funeral. The plane tickets were too expensive. I ignored your calls when I was too busy studying for exams. I can’t remember your face anymore. This is the first time I’ve seen you since I left. I heave into the blankness of the liminal space I created, tears wet my skin and slip down my cheeks, droplets falling to the table.
The piece of tangerine she placed stays untouched.
A resounding wail forces me out of my anguish. I gasp, heart thumping. There’s a baby beside me with a lightning grip on my thumb, wearing a onesie with pink and white flowers. I haphazardly stand up, my feet stumbling on a pile of toys. I step on a plush and it lets out an obnoxious squeak. The baby giggles, her fingers curled into tiny fists, babbling, arms flailing around, and calls out, “Ma!”
I stand stupidly still, looking around the room as if there’s anyone else here with us. The baby lets out another loud wail. In a second, I’m kneeling on the floor again, fretting over her and begging her not to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I ask anxiously, gently caressing her scalp. My other hand hangs in the air, unsure of where I should put it. But the baby grasps my thumb, and I feel the warmth of her small hand.
I look at her in wonder, my mouth gaping. “Are you sleepy?” I ask, cooing. “It’s okay. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” I pat her tummy softly, holding her hand close to my lips, giving it a light kiss.
As this baby holds my thumb as if it’s her entire world, my eyes close, slumber settling in on my eyelids. I drift off to the soft breaths of the baby beside me, her grounding grip on my thumb and an unconditional affection swells in my chest — as if I’ll love her no matter what, do things that I don’t like if it meant she could thrive and peel all the fruit she wants to eat.
An uncomfortable dampness sticks to my temples. I sit up, a little disoriented and with an aching heaviness that settles in my limbs and lungs. I touch my cheeks, feeling the dried tears. My fingers tremble.
“You’re crying?” My mom asks incredulously. “I mean – you were only asleep for an hour. What happened in your dreams for you to look so sad?”
I close my eyes, willing an afterimage of the meadows, my grandma, and the baby to appear. But nothing emerges. My dreams have slipped away through the gaps of my fingers.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” I choke out, voice stuck.
“Come here,” my mom sighs as she guides me back to her lap. She runs her fingers through my hair, patting my shoulders. Her touch is comforting. Tender. As if I’ve truly been destroyed by the longing I felt in my dreams, and her hands are the only thing that can prevent my ribs from cracking.
In my dreams, I can be anyone and anything. In my dreams, precious memories of my mom and grandma play out like a film roll, and their life with me blooms.
Featured Image Source: Chloe Hand
