M I R A G E
M I R A G E
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Claire Danny Morales 1st Place, Prose, Student Contest In the past months, Claire had the same dream every week. In her dream, as she told me countless times, I was in a small, wooden boat, cascading down a stream in a populated forest of trees covering almost every inch. To the left and right, on land, there were children, both boys and girls. The others were adults, all women of around the same age as me. All of them stood there like big oak trees, not moving, as if their feet were deeply rooted into the ground. They all had the same bleak, hopeless look on their faces, reminiscent of a sickly shade of grayish-green. Their black marble eyes were fixated on me. However, their blueberry tinted skin stuck out to me the most. From what she described, I pictured them as if they were all mute zombies, devoid of any life, drawn to the only thing with a heartbeat. That wasn’t the only thing. There was a leak in my boat. As I continued downstream, the boat began to fill with more and more water, rising up just below my knees. To make matters seem even more dire, she said I had no paddle, and that I was scrambling around to escape from the depths below. The first time she had the dream, she woke up screaming and in tears. What scared her the most was that she knew I couldn’t swim. That was Claire’s deepest fear. Mine was different. In my mind, it was only a matter of time before Claire and her mother would be on the banks, joining the rest of the onlookers, as well. I remember the first time I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine. I looked over and saw a woman I had never seen before, sleeping on the opposite side of me. When she woke up, she kissed me good morning and acted as if she had known me an eternity. In her reality, I had always existed. I didn’t know what to think. I tried to get in touch with the people I had previously known, but it was no use; there wasn’t much I could do. I could never find them. Phone numbers were different. Emails were different. Names were different. People were different. After that shocking revelation, a few weeks later, I woke up in another bed, married to another woman, and I was the father of five kids I had never known. The same thing happened. That wife and those children knew my entire life by memory. Again, I had no idea who they were. The cycle continued over and over and over again, until I finally met Claire and her mother. I have been with them for about three years now, making it the longest time I have been with a family I have never known. Above every desire I previously had, my strongest desire was to forget the past lives and the past people. My life had no structure. There was no constant. There was no pattern. I didn’t know how much time I had left in this life. I didn’t know how much time I had in any life for that 13
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matter. It’s not like I enjoyed leaving behind every person I met; at the same time, I didn’t see it as a complete loss either, since my emotions were already like eggs, scrambled all over the place. However, Claire was the only exception to that desire. In the beginning, I had tried not to get too emotionally attached to her; thankfully, I failed. Claire was six years old. Every trip to the playground was always the same. Claire would jump up and down in her seat, on the drive over, saying how she would make new friends. The reality was different. We would sit there for a few hours, the same bench, same time, almost always, and watch the other children play. A few times, I dragged her over and introduced her to some of the kids in her age group, but she would scurry back to the bench and sit with me a few minutes later. Claire clung to my arm like a koala would to a branch. It wasn’t anything new. Claire’s first day of elementary school was similar. I walked her up to her teacher, and before I could introduce myself, Claire bolted behind my legs. She grappled onto them, as if her dear life depended on it. After some persuasion, she finally let go and held onto my hand. The young, fresh out of college, first grade teacher started asking Claire a few questions. Her idea helped, and she finally opened up to her. It seemed to be going just fine. When she became preoccupied, I eventually slipped away. The last thing I remember, at the end of that first exchange, was Claire bawling her eyes out, crying out to me, as she realized that I had left her alone. Later that day, I made it up to her by having a tea party in her room. Luckily, she forgave me. We were still at the park, sitting on the same bench we always sat on. There was a playground in front of us. We heard the creaks from the swing set, as kids swung back and forth. Then, there were the static shocks, as a boy went down one of the slides. A girl, who looked to be around three, quietly dug up sand, with her small shovel, and packed it down in her pail. She picked up a handful of sand and let the granules seep through the cracks between her fingers. I watched as the golden dust fell to the ground. It reminded me of an hourglass. The warm sun toasted our backs from behind. A gentle breeze carried a light, heavenly mist from a sprinkler that watered the grass behind the swings. There was a fiery charcoal scent in the air. A few moments later, it changed to a unique aroma of spices and seasonings. The source was coming from a father who was grilling steaks for his family nearby. Pop, pop...pop. I heard it, but I also could smell it. The buttery scent of popcorn graced our airways, which came from a popcorn vendor underneath an old oak tree to the right from us. “Daddy?” said Claire. “Yes?” I said. “I had the dream again,” she said in between bites of her fudge popsicle. “Same one?” I said, as I took a few bites from my orange-cream popsicle. 14
