Sometimes I dream about faraway places, where the earth shines as though polished and the heavens about spread their blue ink in harmony.
When I dream, I am watching the scene from a hilltop, sitting under a leafy tree and writing great things. My memoirs, maybe. Or random sentiments, like dreams I can recall or early memories. Incidents from seventh grade, all the times I humiliated myself. Now I’m older and wiser. Time has eased my figure and my face. I’m sitting on a hill in Ireland gazing down on Dunnottar Castle with a smile on my face and the wind through my hair. I am left in a quiet solitude for the time being.
This is a perfect place for a writer.
I give another small grin and lean back again my tree, taking calm, deep breaths. Perfection. I am falling asleep…
“Adela!”
It is Senora Perry, using my name for Spanish class. This is the seventh grade once more.
“Sorry, senora,” I said meekly.
She turned away and faced the class once more. Oops.
Sometimes I dream.. Mostly it gets me into trouble.