Summer in Miami. Sweltering. I’m about 4 years old.
Like most mothers, ours enforced an afternoon nap time. “But, I’m not sleepy!” The child’s universal protest. Memories of lying on top of a white sheet on a single bed, sweaty, an oscillating fan positioned in the narrow hall to stir the warm air for each napping child. I remember the low whir. It sent me off to a dreamland from which I would awaken swollen-faced and sluggish.
Sometimes I would stealthily unlatch the window screen and climb out, crawling through the hedge to suck nectar from my mother’s cerise hibiscus flowers along the back wall.
Did I dream this?