Dreams--I Wish They Were Reality

A burst of fire above the horizon line, the sun shoots forward from behind the clouds, imprinting spots of light on my retinas if I stare at its jewel-bright colors long enough.
Dad and Mom are in front of me, holding hands and giggling together. She rests her head on his shoulder. I sigh.
The waves lap at my bare toes, and I giggle, smelling the gentle drifting scent of salt, saturating the air. Wet sand squishes under my bare feet. We who live on the beaches forget about the flip-flops.
“Mom, I—”
I stop, because I’ve waken up. My head is pressed against my Spanish textbook and Senora Larson is glaring at me with as much fury as the sun in my dream.
“Sorry,” I murmur, and give the correct answer when she repeats the question she’s been trying to wake me up with for the past five minutes.
Dreams. I wish they were reality. I miss how Mom and Dad and I used to stroll along the beach, past the rolling waves, picking up smooth chunks of sea glass and pretty striped shells.
They used to be so in love.

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