The Dream

I remember some things from my childhood. Very few things, but the ones that matter. I remember very little about school or friends or much of that kid stuff that everyone seems so enthralled by in those first ten years of life. No, I remember something a bit different. I remember music, the laughter, the sweet sting of wine, the smell of scotch as its first opened, the vibrant voices and clumsy giggles, and the thick air that filled those lingering nights. Nights that have spotted my eyes with a wild streak, a thrill for being near laughing drunken fools. They were the happiest times of my life, the happiest times of my childhood. They have scarred me and left me a day-dreaming absurdity—a soon to be blithering wino I’m sure. But I honestly don’t really mind.
My mom and her girlfriend, Gaye, were the artsy-happening couple of the 90s—the eccentric photographer and the beautiful professor-activist. Every weekend in our wild and overflowing house, brimming with odd collections of art and dishes and old rusted things, people would gather from all over the islands, starting at around eight o’clock. Professors, painters, writers, activists, musicians, drag queens, sculptors, and a few un-established souls with a fiery mind and an even sharper tongue. The red wine would begin to spill, the taste getting stronger on their tongues as the night progressed into a further blur. I would just sit and watch, listening to the scattered conversations from the bizarre minds of intellectuals. I would just sit there quietly, with a smile across my face.
I would get a pat on the head every once in awhile, not much recognition except for the occasional exclamation of “How adorable she is!” or “Why is that little boy wearing a dress?” I was an odd-ball, trained to be as such by all the odd-balls around me. They never made clear what they wished me to be, only what never to be. “Don’t ever be like one of those silly little girls your own age,” they would say. “Remember, you are so much better than that.” I never quite knew what that meant, but I certainly tried to figure it out.
Once the party would die down, and the last lingerers were finally ushered out the door, Mom and Gaye would pour themselves one last glass of Cabernet, put on Patsy Cline, and slow dance until the sun began to set outside our living room window. I would just sit there, as I always did, and watch them until I fell asleep on the couch, curled up against its hard wood arms. I would wake up the next day, usually around noon, and find myself in my bed, tightly tucked away beneath layers upon layers of blankets, despite the sweltering heat of the Hawaiian sun. I would wake up, as always, and wonder, was it all a dream?
But as I stepped outside my room and looked around the house, at the empty glasses and half-empty bottles scattered around the tables and floors and book shelves, and the crumpled white and red-stained napkins lining the black furniture, I would know. The harsh noon heat would burn away the sweet smells of the night before, sifting through the thick air, and then return to me as only a memory, a memory of what was.