I dream of waking before the dawn,
preparing for my day with proficiency,
professionally preened and on the go.
In reality, I see the early light of day
through an insomnia-induced haze,
or miss it altogether, unable to rise.
I will carelessly tie my hair back,
and moan at my image, forgoing cosmetics –
no one will see me, after all.
If I dress, it will be for comfort,
elasticized waistline compensating for swelling,
soft fabrics to soothe the burning aches.
In my dream it is the first day of school,
and I am excited and anxious,
caught up in the camaraderie of the moment.
I awake to the resounding silence of solitude,
no schedules await me, no colleagues
exchanging pleasantries, communal conspiracy absent.
I will pace myself, shuffling
between bed and simple tasks,
a cup of tea, maybe some writing.
I drive in my dream, a shiny red car
in which I glide through the streets
and park with the pride of knowing it awaits.
Its been years since I’ve felt the freedom
and independence of self-chauffeuring,
reliant on the more able-bodied, sharply cognizant.
It’s a rare occasion that rouses me from
this compelled complacency, enough
to venture into the hyper-stimulating world.
Disability has closed around me,
limiting experience, restricting imagination,
until I dream – and am whole again.