For fifteen months, my days and nights were consumed with physical tasks. Go to the hospital, take my hormones, feed the hunger, try to rest, make sure the baby is growing well inside of me, and then, make sure the baby – little Max Luca “Sihai” (whose Chinese name means “remembrance of the ocean,” after his grandfather “Haiyan”) – is growing well outside of me, in the big wide world.
My dream life was mostly dormant in those fifteen months.
Then, April came along. April has always been a special month. All three of us – mom, dad, and I – have our birthdays in April. I think of him even more in April.
Last night, I finally dreamed of Daddy again, two weeks before what would have been his sixtieth birthday.
I dreamed that the three of us were on the run because Daddy had accidentally committed a crime. How bizarre. He was such an upright citizen, far too dignified and cautious to even run a red light.
So, we were running from the police, but I had no fear. In my dream, there was no fear. There was only longing. Longing and wishing.
As we ran, and walked when we tired of running, I wasn’t afraid. I only wished to walk on forever with the two of them, with my mother and my father. I longed so hard to not get caught in the night, because if we got caught, we would have to stop walking together. If we got caught, someone would take us away, break us us apart, make us stop walking on together.
Night always turns into day.
Eventually, in my dream, we turned ourselves in at the police station.
There, I dropped down. I knelt at an officer’s feet, crying, desperate to tell him that there had been no crime, that I had done nothing wrong. That I only wanted to keep on walking with both my parents, with my mother and my father. That I only wanted the three of us to keep walking on together, forever and ever.
I woke up.