BERT'S DREAM
A seven-year-old me stands with brightly colored chalks under arm, staring up the path to our small town library.
I scrape my bare knees on the sandstone as I wear down my favorite sea blues and fresh greens - so bright they fail to fade even as my body drops a shaded silhouette between them and the sun. Soon enough the path is full of bright scenes like those Bert would draw for Mary Poppins and her young charges.
I stand
I close my eyes
I hold my breath and count to three and jump.
A scowling librarian bulls through the glass front door to hiss and scream and chase me away in a flail of laughter down the street. I run home to my grandmother, with whom I live, only to be chastised again for tracking the colored remnants of my work across her dark-patterned rugs. I run upstairs to my room and stare out the window where the arrival of rain has blurred the pane, the library and my drawings beyond.
I return after the librarians have gone home and the rain has stopped. I sit cross-legged before my dampened dreams, chin cupped in one hand, the other rubbing my bruised knees and I wonder why I can’t jump into drawings as a mere chimney sweep could.
Today I dream in different places. Denver’s parks. The islands of Cyprus, Cuba and Hispaniola. The rain comes at times to chase me away from my favorite Cheesman Park trees just as Bert and Mary and the children were chased from their favorite place. But that’s OK. My dreams still continue. And I still count to three and jump.