#impossible worlds

what If I cut the moon in half and pour all the stars into a jar drown the sea into the fire and fulfill my desire

what if I peel the earth and find a beating heart into her core and build sand castles that will last forever on a violent shore

what if when I touch the sun It will freeze and I will fly with dragons in a gentle breeze

Wecker, Helene ~ The Golem and the Jinni

Most idealists lived in their own impossible worlds, sealed away from reality; Maryam, it seemed, effortlessly reached out from hers and drew others inside.

… “You would swear they can’t last an hour without needing me to resolve some sort of disaster”, I mutter as my fingers coursed over the keyboard. Even when I wasn’t in the office, they were still asking for my opinion on their next move. I pinch the bridge of my nose, stroke my beard, and then go to shake my head. As my head started to move to the left, I felt a sharp tug on my long hair.

“Dad, stop moving! You’re messing up my braid”, a high pitch voice from behind me says. Two little hands fix themselves on my head and put it back into position facing the screen. A smile forms on my face as I open my computer’s camera to see what exactly is going on. As expected, I see my 10 year old daughter with her hands deep in my long golden brown hair. She takes a moment to pull her auburn hair back, then resumes her endeavour. Her slender face is fixed in concentration, her crystal blue eyes with a tinge of green focused on the intricate weaving of hair in front of her. I turn back to my email, ignoring the occasional tug as I respond to my colleague’s questions on our latest analysis. My daughter hums a familiar string of notes, a Tolkien lullaby she had heard me sing an untold number of times. I don’t join in, for fear of moving my head again. As I continue to work, I hear a door open, followed by two sets footsteps coming from the floor below me.

“Mom’s home!”, my daughter cries out, “Come on, Dad, I want to show her my braids!”. She jumps off the stool she had been perched on and pulls my hand.

“Just a minute, dear”, I respond. I type the final few lines of my email and click send. I then let her drag me out of my office and down the stairs. I look on the stairwell where the pictures from the last year were hung. My favorite among them was one where I am holding my two children at the renaissance faire. I have my elven armor and cloak on, my daughter is dressed as a princess of Rohan, and my eight year old son is wearing the clothes of a young hobbit. Each of us wears a green leaf brooch. I don’t have a long time to look as my daughter continues to drag me down the stairs and into the family room. The two of us turn the corner and I look to see my son in his little league soccer jersey. He has the same slender face as his sister, but his eyes are a brilliant green, like his father.

“How does dad look?”, my daughter asks. My son looks at my hair, trying to figure out what he thinks. His uncertainty is obvious in his face. “Don’t you think it looks good?”, his sister implores.

“I think he looks as handsome as ever”, a voice behind me says. I turn to see my wife, dressed simply in jeans, and her favorite purple and grey patterned shirt. Around her neck hangs the evenstar pendant. Her hair is pulled back as usual, with two long strands on the sides holding the rest of her flowing auburn hair in check. She walks up and gives me a quick kiss. “However, I think your father may want to fix a few bits before he goes out”. She holds up her phone to show me the mess of interwoven braids of different styles crisscrossing the back of my head. I let out an irrepressible laugh. My daughter hangs her head, apparently dissatisfied with her results. I bend down and hug her.

“Your mother is right. However, each braid individually is perfect. I’m proud to have you as my personal stylist”. My daughter looks up at me and smiles.

She walks up behind me and deftly unravels my hair, only leaving a single, small braid that runs over my left ear. This braid ends in carved bone from one of our many adventures. She says, “Go get your coats, you two. We have to get going or we’ll be late for Keith’s soccer game”. The two children run to the door and put on their coats. I wrap my long hair into a ponytail using the remaining braid, the bone charm securing my hair in place. My wife gives me another quick kiss, then walks to the door where my children are impatiently waiting. She puts on her coat and the three of them begin to walk out towards the car. I take my long, flowing coat off the hook and put it on, smiling as I watch my family walk down the path to the street.

My wife turns to me and says, “Aren’t you coming?” I try to reply, but I can’t. I try and walk forward through the doorway, but I can’t. Suddenly, I feel a wet spot on my chest. My hands involuntarily touch the spot, which is spreading quickly. As I look down at my hands, I see that they are stained bright red with my blood. As I look up again, my wife and my children are still there, smiling as if nothing is wrong. My vision fades slowly as I realize that it is all just a dream.