MARLICIA FERNANDEZ is a stay-at- home wife and mother who enjoys writing poetry and fiction. She has been published in Portals Magazine, The Murder Hole and Shadowkeep. Marlicia will also have her work showcased in Beginnings Magazine soon.

                                                            i still dream


It's winter, and the scene outside my small window is filled with shades of gray and white, without a hint of blue, or green to brighten the picture, but that’s ok. I can still dream. I dream of flowers in the springtime; tulips and daffodils, and later of daisies and roses…especially white roses. I even dream of marauding dandelions on a carpet of green. Their scent fills the air with sweet perfume. I dream of birds singing, robins and blue jays, cardinals and wrens. Their chirping fills my ears, melodies without words.

The room is small, the bed uncomfortable, and I am cold. I pull my tattered sweater more closely about me to conserve heat, but still I shiver. I’m cold, but it doesn't matter. I can still dream. I dream of the sun's warmth on my face. Its intensity blinds me, and I have to look away, but I can feel its rays beating down on my head, warming my shoulders. It makes me sleepy…I dream of a hillside where the breezes of summer caress the leaves and their rustling is a lullaby, tempting me to sleep. Yes, I still dream.

It’s lonely here. There is no one to talk to. Strange guttural sounds punctuate the silence both day and night. It is lonely here, and
frightening, but I still dream. I dream of a time and a place. I dream of a person, a person who waits for me, and I wonder…does he still wait?

And I dream…

I dream of wedding bells and rice something blue and old shoes I dream of a honeymoon, a home, and a family of my own.

The night is falling and the grays and whites are replaced by deep blue-black, sprinkled with diamonds. They twinkle brightly, like the ring I once wore on the third finger of my left hand. I can see them, but I can’t touch them. Even if I stretch out my hand, I can’t reach them.

I move from the bed to the solitary chair, the only other piece of furniture in my room. I would like to go farther, but I can’t. I know the door is locked from the outside and my shackles remind me I am not free. I am not free to enjoy a winter’s day, a bouquet of flowers, or a summer breeze. I am not free to feel my love’s embrace or hear the sound of his voice.

I am not free…they have imprisoned me, but I can still dream.

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© 2002 Marlicia Fernandez