Don't Offer Her Water

Last night after celebrating a wonderful day shopping at the Farmer's Market with my roommate, making delicious food with my mom, dad, and brother, and watching "The Sopranos" with my boyfriend paired with red wine and snuggles I had a dream about children. It was an awkward reunion between mother and daughter. A handful of years prior the beautiful little girl had followed a stranger who asked her if she wanted a glass of water. In the wake of her kidnapping the mother bore several more children and even adopted sons from distant countries to fill in the void of her missing child. The reunion was not a happy one because it was laced with regret, disconnection of heart and soul, and resentments. The mother resented the little girl for accepting the water from the stranger. She didn't want to know what had happened and her lips pursed in denial and her arms failed to lift for a hug. The little girl held her grief inside and I wanted to rescue her with a hug and a glass of water. She looked at me as if she could hear my thoughts. The mother in me was sprouting to life. I wanted to protect and care for these children, not just the little girl whose eyes had lost their naivete. I wanted them all to know that they would never be lost or forgotten. I wanted them to know that it was not her fault. She drank the water, never to hurt anyone. She was thirsty. She had not committed a crime. The kidnapper was to blame.

The mother disappeared as if to teach them a lesson. The children climbed all over each other to comfort one another and stared at me blankly asking what's next. The day was still and cold and hot in flashes and all I wanted was a glass of water.