Sueñitos

 Little dreams

What are our sueñitos?

the littlest ones have to be the most delicate, cariñosos, so tender they fall out of your hands like snow on warm leather gloves

My little sweethearts

Having lemonade on the big front steps overlooking the world below and ahead of them

Learning a musical instrument in the sunroom, finding the joy of practicing and lost in the music groove

Little shoes left outside the front porch

Deep cleaning all the back porches so the wood is scrubbed and fresh and shines through and it's warm 

But not too warm, just enough to sink into

An art studio where we can learn to think big about painting and being free with self expression

Their little hands selecting clothes from their Montessori racks in their closet, maybe even folding shorts one day 

Hammocks on the deck, comforted by dusk

Hugs from linen curtains we will install, illuminated by the summer light at a naptime

Little Felix kisses goodnight in his room, his own expression of self, for once his. 

Real talk with Alex and a wine on a late spring evening on the front porch feeling all right

Hosting beloved friends once we modernize

Building a front door lock where once we are in, the home is ours and it's our home 

Long sweaty afternoons with the kiddos in backyards growing up together, wild and kind and muddy

Sunsets in summer with the feels by the marsh

One day, being picked up by a boat on our little waterway, seeing our lives from that side of things 

Maybe being pregnant, rocking on the rocking chair 

Ceiling fans installed and working 

The fresh sheepskin rug

Noticing Alex again, having landed us both, a npd 

Imbolc

 I used to question whether I was a woman

I felt too cold, I felt too tough

My little hands were strong, probably from throwing pots

And grasping pens to draw elaborate and thick tropical forests as I was listening. 

The men's world was still an icy mountain, but the women's felt like a river, and I was like a fox on the mountain, scavenging and smelling the strong wind

Then I met the Celtic women and saw they held the secrets and were fierce and it wasn't a statement, it just was

And then I became a mother and understood.

Everything. 

My grit was borrowed at an early age, warrior status like a girl given a sword

That she understands

It's heavy stuff. I felt I had too icy a stare to be a woman

Or maybe just a little gay, with elation at the rhythmic and wild things. But also the baskets, and the soft comforts at dawn, and feeling everything, and transitioning through experiencing fully in different ways

My whiteness is deep too