“I want a story, too.”
It was an ugly morning, Sunday, I think. Only a little bit of blue could be seen under all those dreary clouds. The sun glowed softly though, but it wasn’t enough. It felt too much… too much like me.
“No, you don’t, honey. Stories are for mad people,” Ms. Bridge muttered, “Don’t be mad. Besides, you’ve got to find your dream first. ” I searched for a smile, but I only found the pinched grimace that had just about claimed its permanent home on her face.
“Today’s really not a good roof-top day, is it?” We were sitting comfortably on our usual spot that morning, the roof of our apartment building, which would grow to become something of a home to me. It would make up for what I couldn’t find at my actual home.
“Now, hand me your foot, honey.” I laid down further on the lawn chair as she started on my left one, pink stripes and white polka dots. The polish was cracked and cheap, bought from the dollar store two blocks down our street, no doubt, but I had still admired those colors on my toes. Then, it had been magic.
She was alive, then.
“Ms. Bridge, what’s bad about being mad?”
“You really are beautiful, So Ming,” Ms. Bridge held my black locks with her weathered fingers. I turned away quickly, the hair slipping from her grip.
“What’s bad about being mad?” I asked again. I would make her answer, because she was strong enough.
She shook her head slowly, “ I don’t know, honey.. I don’t know…”
“You know.”
“Dreams,” she whispered, like it was a close memory, “Dreams.” I hadn’t noticed the words were spoken with something different, not love or hope, but something like lust.
“What’s bad about dreams?”
“Oh, nothing.” I loved her, but not enough. I didn’t want to have thin, grey hair like her, or wear my husband’s old sweater, or spend all my time on top of the apartment building I lived on with some kid. I was afraid of growing into one of her. I was just afraid.
“Nearly done here, honey-”
“I already have a dream,” I told her, “A big one!” I had felt guilty, like I was showing something I should have a long time ago. I had kept it hidden under everything, but now my dream was thirsting.
“Alright, what is it, then?” Ms. Bridge had closed the little nail polish bottle and placed it in one of her jacket’s pockets. She looked at me with worn eyes. They had looked like… today.
“I want…,” it was bursting for air, I could feel it, “I want to fly.”
Ms. Bridge almost smiled. “You’ll fly, darling, you will. Just not today, I’m afraid,” she told me, tapping on the watch; It was time to go home.
I jumped out of my lawn chair and helped her up. “I still want a story, you know.”
“Well, if you’re alright with being mad, then you’ll find it.”
“Did you?”
“I thought I had found my story… it wasn’t true though.” Ms. Bridge frowned, the wrinkles compressed together, like she suddenly tasted something sour on her tongue. It had been her husband, of coarse.
“I realized, you’re my true story, So Ming,” she smiled weakly, “And I’ll do whatever I can to help you find yours.” I opened the door for her.
Today I won’t fly… tomorrow, I will.
