Fantasy Cheerios

Tonight I dreamed of Mom.

She was sitting in her spot on the love seat, flipping through a Redbook magazine and asking me about college, about my roommates, if I was dating anyone interesting. Her hair was perfectly primped and she was wearing her signature raisinberry lipstick. She told me I needed to be eating more fruits and veggies and taking longer walks. She said my hair needed some highlights. I was so happy to hear these sage bits of advice that I burst out laughing.

I woke up laughing, but now here I am on the living room couch at 1:16 a.m. with a bowl of Cheerios, a heart of sadness, and my own form of therapy: writing. It seems almost cruel to have had her so real and so tangible in my dream when the fantasy can't come true. At 1:18 in the morning, such sadness warrants Cheerios. I mean, the very name of the cereal seems like a guarantee that it will help "cheer" me.

Zachary has a piano recital on Saturday, and Alec has a double-header worth of tball that day as well. She would have eaten the whole day up with a spoon and a smile.

This week, I need to work outside in my flower beds, and I just really want her here for advice on that. I did not inherit her abilities with pansies and hostas. I wish I had, but instead I inherited her need/love for chocolate. Unfortunately, I feel like chocolate at 1:20 a.m. would just be way too over-the-top even for me; fortunately, a bowl of Cheerios seems appropriate. Cheerios are supposed to be heart healthy, and my heart could use a little something good tonight.

The whole thing pretty much sucks. Grief, that is... not Cheerios. Cheerios and writing seemed to have done their collective job of helping me deal with that all-too-real fantasy.

And actually, I really do need some highlights.