Dreams
My mum and I are dreamers. With our toes dipped into the damp and heavy sand, we used to sit on the beach, watching the huge and slow sprays rolling in, green and white. Then both of us would lose ourselves in a reverie. I was then about 10, and my mum 34. I was dreaming about owning a beach house, while Mum wanted a pair of diamond earrings.
Mum was short and chubby back then. She had handsome and gracious looks, her nose straight with a nose tip turned up a little, her bronzed hair sparkling in the sunlight. I, myself, had dark hair and long narrow eyes. I was short, even shorter than my younger brother, John. Mum and I usually sat down and dreamed while watching John and my baby sister Adele racing on the sands.
My dream was that there would be a fabulous house of my own behind the sea wall. I would sit on the porch, eyeing the luxury mail liner sailing around on the sea, packed with leisurely passengers, chatting and laughing. I fancied that my imaginary house would swarm with servants who carried silver trays to wait upon us with chocolate and ice-cream.
Mum never knew how to dream big dreams. What she ever wanted was a pair of small earrings each with a half-carat diamond. Her ears had been pierced by grandma long before. She once told me that she would not ever lose them if she got those diamond earrings.
