Dream, Deferred

​“Nice hat,” Balermo sneers when he walks past my desk.
His comment is like a torpedo that’s made a direct hit. My heart sinks. Homeroom hasn’t even started, and the beanie is already attracting unwanted attention. I thought I’d at least get through a class or two before anyone said anything, but I should have known that mean kids are always on the lookout for things to pick on.
And yeah, the orange and red stripes are a little tacky, but it’s ridiculous that I can’t wear a hat that makes seasonal sense without getting hassled. Still, I feel like I got off easy with that sarcastic comment. It’s nothing compared to what I’d get about the patch under the beanie—everything from banter about how I shouldn’t watch horror movies before bed to childish put-downs that are all just ways of branding me a coward: wuss, wimp, big baby.

Thankfully, no one mentions a word about the beanie in Social Studies and Math, though I do catch a few classmates looking at it. Why else would their eyes dart away the moment I glance in their direction? Maybe they think the beanie means I’m having a bad hair day.
It’s a relief to be outside for morning recess. Since you have compost duty, I go to one of the benches behind the rose bushes and read the novel I’m in the middle of.
Back in its futuristic world where synthetic dreams teach tweens what it’s like to be other people, I follow the main character into a new type of dream that spans years in a single night. Soon, I’m zipping through page after page of her dreaming about life as a dolphin, going from playful calf to respected adult, the rich description making me her, a member of that dolphin pod. Until someone suddenly shouts, “I want to make a fashion statement too!”
I’ve only just realized it’s Balermo’s voice when the beanie is yanked off my head.
Looking up from my book, I recoil at the sight of Geowin. Standing right in front of me, Balermo’s trusty sidekick says, “Ooh, looks like someone’s been having bad dreams. Well, you have to grow up and face them!”
His hand comes straight at me. I drop my book to swat him away, but I’m too late.
For a second I feel a cold gust of wind against my suddenly bare forehead, then memories of last night’s dream come rushing back. Waking up in the cryostasis chamber. The purple hemisphere of an exoplanet looming huge outside the cryobay window. Excitement that we made it. The thrill banished by the realization that back home my parents were now at best great grandparents to my sister’s kids’ kids. My heart instantly hollowed out by the fact that I’d never get to see any of them. The price of adventure and discovery devastatingly high now that I had paid it in full.
The tears come fast, bringing me straight back to where I left off this morning before putting on the patch, my chest aching in the crushing grip of the dream. Those eerie scenes still vivid—the green sunset over obsidian canyons, the sparkling sandstorm like sapphire snow swirling in slow motion, the orange moon rising over a desolate horizon—each a reminder of the family I had left behind and ultimately lost. I’d never get to tell the people I loved the most about these strange sights. Then I knew this was the price of being a person in the world. We get to go off into new possibilities, but that means going onward without people we love. How will I ever be able to do that?
And now I’m bawling while Balermo and Geowin laugh and make jokes I couldn’t care less about. The dream is wringing my heart all over again. I couldn’t stand it this morning, and I can’t stand it now. The truth of it is too much. Even though I won’t have to face the harsh realities of that truth for a while, the ultimate reality will come for me with all its terrible permanence. Good old human condition. Parents bring children into the world, live with them in it, then see them off into the world’s future. To have to go through that as a child and as a parent must be so hard. How can I possibly say goodbye forever to Mom? How could I bear a final farewell with my own children?
I shut my eyes, draw up my legs, drop my face toward my knees and let sorrow wrack me. Even when bursts of yelling mix with my sobbing, my head stays down. Even when someone’s fingertips press something cool against my forehead, I go on crying. Until the sadness shrinks back, opening up enough space in my mind to know that you’re sitting next to me and must have gotten rid of Balermo and Geowin.
The sadness keeps shrinking, and once it has mostly ebbed, I turn to you and say, “Thanks.”
“I should have come sooner,” you say. “I knew they were up to no good when I saw them heading toward you.”
I wipe my eyes, then ask, “Do you always bring nightmare relief patches to school?”
“That’s actually an emotion numbing patch I stuck on,” you answer. “Dad said I should keep a few in my wallet, in case I need help with big feelings.”
“Oh, so no memory blocking?”
“No, it just does emotions.”
“That’s still a huge help.”
“Good, I thought it would be. But we can go to the school nurse and see if there’s something for bad memories.”
“They’re not exactly bad,” I find myself saying. “More like difficult.”
“Would talking about them will help?”
I take a deep breath, then say, “It’s worth a try.”
With this new patch, I can probably describe the dream without getting emotional. But if I do, it won’t matter. You’ve seen me cry plenty of times.
You hand me my beanie, and I tell you what it was like being a space explorer.

Soramimi Hanarejima is the author of the neuropunk story collection Literary Devices For Coping and whose recent work appears in Pulp Literature, The Offing, Black Warrior Review, and The Cincinnati Review.

Website: https://cognitivecollage.net 

Image by CHUTTERSNAP