i almost died. And i've spent the rest of my life figuring out why i didn't.
Last year, i dreamt a dream that my rose printed tulip skirt, the one all the girls in my french class ooed and ahhed and bantered over, the one that made my waist look smaller than the 26 inches it is in the morning, disappeared from my dorm dresser, that someone had taken it while i slept while i dreamt. When i woke up, i felt that it was gone and it was and is, to this day.
When i was thirteen years old, i wanted to look like the idea of bavarian cream. my lips had been created and melted and sealed for thirteen years. the action of speech was an unpeeling, as sticky and sweet as the sugar molecules that fused the creamy, yellow filling into a jiggly solid. most of all, i wanted to feel coveted and surrender to the will of the lascivious mouths of every apple-cheeked, balding suit wearer who always found a timid excuse to miss little league games, even on sunny saturday afternoons.
now, i want everyone who looks at me to think of home. to have a face that reminds everyone of creaky doors, fireplace incense and the magic of warm apple pie.
