by Rebecca Mear
Dream
Dream, reads the faded, beachy poster above
Jamie’s rusty, brass bed frame.
It’s a bleached, curling artifact
Tormented by the sun
For six long years,
A mere souvenir of a distant
Cape Cod trip, and all
That remains on Jamie’s
Pale aqua walls.
Jamie’s small arms cross
As her mother boxes up
The walls’ belongings.
But walls cannot retaliate, so
They only mourn the loss of
Their glow-in-the-dark stars
And billowing butterfly tapestries
And stick-on flower decals
And birthday cards from Grandma Joanna,
All
To be haphazardly thrown
Into the box labeled “Jamie’s Stuff”
In drippy, blue chicken scratch.
Because all of Jamie’s possessions,
Her precious memories, are only
Useless objects, good enough
For one limp box.
But home is family—not a place
Or possessions. Right?
Jamie’s mom wears a phony smirk
And says, “Jamie, it’ll be okay.”
The girl half-smiles back
Until
Her mother yanks down
The poster—
The one reminding Jamie to dream
And hope and
Be happy and
Hold on.
Jamie snatches up her beach-scene
And rolls it together
Before facing
Her bare, soulless bedroom walls,
The ones she has stared at for
A lifetime, or maybe
Just six years.
But is there really
Any difference?
The walls whisper their sleepy mantra,
A secret chant for Jamie:
dream,
dream, dream,
dream,
Jamie inhales their words
And traps her memories
In the lonely box
Before whispering back:
How can I dream
If I do not have anywhere
To sleep?
And they answer her:
Dream,
Dream,
Dream,
Dream,
Dream,
Dream,
Dream.
And in response, she says:
Don’t you worry, I’ll try.
Mermaids Don’t Dream
Jamie tears off the yellowing tape
In one swift motion,
Releasing prisoner #236, “Jamie’s Stuff.”
The box sighs out in relief
And shushes its eager contents:
The objects too useless
For Jamie to glance at.
Even the Dream poster
Is purposeless here, in a place
Where Jamie is a stranger
Without her own walls.
If only Jamie could live on the beach,
The one from the poster.
She could be a mermaid
And spend all day swimming
In the satisfying ocean.
But no. She is stuck here,
In a foreign house
That smells like mildew and tea,
Inhabited a distant but related
Woman.
Jamie cringes, for even the cardboard box
Is freer than this wannabee-mermaid girl,
This mess of oceanic tears and knotted seaweed hair.
For the box’s lips are open
And Jamie’s are plastered shut.
Looking in the box is not an option.
Looking in the box is giving into the
Current behind Jamie’s eyes. It is
Drowning in the salt, forgetting to
Swim, becoming one with the ocean:
Sorrow, sea salt, and tumult.
So Jamie does not open the box
On the musty floor
Of Grandma Joanna’s house.
Instead, she lies
Down
And stares at the ceiling fan’s
Hypnotic display.
Jamie’s eyes
Circle around
And around
Until
She hears the box’s familiar sigh
And dissolves the box with her dagger-eyes.
If only it actually worked, if mermaids could
Make things—or people—disappear.
Traitor, she mouths to the box.
She tries screaming it,
But no sound escapes.
Once the mute button is pressed,
Mermaid-Jamie replaces
Sugared, elated Jamie.
Jamie tires from fighting
The tide. But if the box is even a traitor,
For helping her move to this dumb place,
Who can be trusted?
She lies back down on her new sand carpet—
Scratchy and satisfyingly uncomfortable—
And gazes up at the fan’s dancing arms
Flailing about. Then everything fades
To crippling darkness.
sleep finds her,
but dreams
do not.
mermaids made
of sorrow
and sea salt
and tumult
do not
dream.
Wavelengths
Jamie Jamie Jamie
Jamie Jamie Jamie Jamie
The waves pound against Jamie’s face,
Crashing until her eyelids
Force themselves open.
Jamie blinks
Salty condensation away
Before gazing up
At her mother,
The woman who drained
Her oceanic dreams.
All that remains?
Saltwater residue.
Jamie sees her mother’s lips move
But only hears
The roar of a sea
lion. Or maybe that’s just
Jamie’s muted screaming.
But don’t ask the box. He’s a traitor.
Jamie tap, tap, taps on the side of her head, draining
The sand filling her seashell ears.
What did you sa—she begins.
The reply:
Blah Blah blah blah
BLAH BLAH BLAH
Now unpack that box!
But—Jamie utters.
But nothing comes out.
But the box’s sigh intensifies.
But the imaginary sea lion releases
A hard laugh.
But her mother’s blahs continue on
For one minute, two, three,
Until
It’s all too loud to ignore
And Jamie must open the box
For her own sanity.
Enough, enough already!
And then: silence
For the Opening
Of the Box.
Jamie breathes in its musty scent
Of basement cardboard
And glares
At her corrugated enemy.
Her mother’s narrow mouth
Hinges open. Beady eyes
Stare her down.
If only Jamie had a bucket of sea
Water to refresh her mother.
But mermaids are not miracle workers.
Jamie lifts a wrinkled finger to the box
And peels back its evil flaps.
The only sounds in the room:
Jamie’s silent gasp,
Her mother’s high heeled-shoes
Marching off,
And the maddening sigh
Of the enemy.
Jamie and Barbie
It’s Sunsational Malibu Barbie,
Complete with 80’s tan and stringy blond hair
And orchid swimsuit, faded
From the sun and pool chlorine and yes—ocean salt.
So what if her suit’s tie frays
From innumerable knots
And its metal snap and single flower decal fight
To jump off the purple fabric?
Does that really matter to Barbie?
Barbie, why are you in that box of doom?
You’re too pretty to be trapped away
Without sunlight to exfoliate your plastic tan.
Your cheeks may be too round, too dimpled,
And your turquoise eye shadow and arched
Eyebrows are no longer in-style,
But I love you all the same. I need you.
Barbie smiles her painted-on grin,
The one that endured even when
Jamie gave Barbie a not-so-minor haircut
Or dripped chocolate ice cream down her violet one-piece
Or took her out to play in the snow
In a bathing suit, for goodness’ sake!
What endurance! What tenacity that Barbie has!
Barbie, you were always there for me—even when nobody else was.
When Mom was God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what,
When Only-Friend Benny abandoned us and moved to California,
When Santa Claus wasn’t so real anymore (and neither was Christmas).
You even stuck it out when you lost everything.
When Mom sold off poor Ken and Midge and Alan and Skipper
In the Great Yard Sale of ‘09
And you lost your Magical Mansion and pool and parrot Tahiti and jet ski
And even your entire wardrobe—except for your tattered bathing suit—
Because Mommy was mad at me for breaking her favorite wineglass.
Jamie’s eyes well up as she looks at her long-lost
Shoeless plastic friend—
Malibu Barbie is barefoot because
She prefers to feel
The scorching sand tickle
Her pointed toes.
Why would a little bit of pain
Stop a timeless icon?
Oh, Barbie, do we have to stay
At Grandma’s forever?
Why can’t we just live
At the beach instead?
We can make sand castles all day
And play in the waves.
I’m a mermaid now, you know!
Maybe you can even teach me
To surf. Barbie,
We can stay and dream
In the hot sun. If you want,
Both of us can be mermaids.
Let’s go, right now. Close your eyes.
We’re here, Barbie!
Do you feel that?
It’s the salty breeze.
And there’s the scratchy sand,
Hot the way you like it.
Oh, I can even taste the ocean mist
In the air. I think I’m tanning!
Look, Barbie, am I really?
Noise? What noise? I don’t hear—
Jamie, what are you doing?
Blah, blah, blah.
I’m sorry we don’t have
A real beach, Barbie,
With actual warm sand
And salted water.
But we can still pretend,
Can’t we?
Pretending’s all we really can do.
It’s not like mermaids can dream.