Untitled - ScholarWorks Home - California State University, Northridge

ning, you still believed in your invincibility. Then, you found faith in your apa­
thy. And forgot about your secrets entirely.
You went away to college. You got some life experience and a degree.
You got a job managing a small corporation. You made good money, and you
were still young. The job was fine, and you found a small house to rent with
your dogs. There was a yard, and a patio from which spider plants could hang.
You hadn't married; you hadn't wanted to. You had been dating someone,
which had been going okay. That is, until Michael, Julianne and the baby
moved in. You were living an adult life, with adult concerns. You had groceries
to buy, and a brother to nag about getting another job. You didn't have time for
super powers. You barely had time for T.V. You had forgotten about your
dreams. Until Angela told you hers.
You sit up a little from your recline against your niece's bedroom wall.
To your surprise you find yourself holding on to it. A little. Perhaps the floating
feeling you sense is the wine you had with dinner. She is
quiet while you remember things. You are quiet while
your breathing slows. When the room stops spin-
ning you ask her what she means. She only repeats
herself. I was the wind before I was a girl. When
you ask her how she knows, she says she just does.
And she tells you because she knows you understand.
You are still. She asks if tomorrow you can
push her on the tire swing. When you get home, before dinner. You kiss her
strawberry hair and tell her fine. She asks for one more song. You sing
"Goodnight, My Someone," and you feel your voice shake. It fills the room.
You are stuck for a moment in which you can't tell which girl you are. The
words coming from your mouth are not your own. The voice in
your throat is your mother's. The dreams Angela dreams
tonight are yours. You finish the song, and wait. Her
breathing becomes that slow inhale, exhale of sleep. You
let yourself out of the bed.
You go back into the kitchen for another glass of
wine. It is darker than usual outside. The kitchen light is a
strange orange glow. You stare at your own reflection in the
window over the sink. Your hair is shorter than it ever was. You
have more lines on your face, but you still look young. Though you'd always
hated the prospect, you really do look more like your mother. You remember
thinking that was never going to happen.
79