I wrote this in my thirties, having woken up with this beautiful dream. I had been searching for myself, not yet having found her, and this was the beginning.
A child came to live with us.
I was married with three children
when she arrived,
a small, dark girl,
with knotted hair and
vague features.
All I knew was that
she had not received
the right sort of care.
With a gentle invitation,
I bathed her in gentle soapy bubbles,
luxurious warmth for her pale smooth skin,
shampooed with even, circular movements,
the knots and stickiness from her hair
and conditioned the neglected lengths;
when we had done,
it free-fell, snaking
liquid glossy down her back.
When it dried
it was tumbling and healthy,
alive with movement and
vibrant chestnut tones
catching the light every way.
Her paleness gave way
to a rosy glow.
I took the boxes of dressing-up clothes
from under my bed.
Rumpled, twisted armfuls
of fairy dresses, wire wings
with sparkles, sequins, colours
of pink and purple and
eggshell blue,
long drapes and scarves
from Japan, caresses of
satin gliding over the skin.
She stood, watchfully
silent while I dressed her,
picking out the items
with care.
She lifted her arms
while I slid a fairy dress
over her shoulders and
enveloped her in sparkles.
I led her to the mirror,
her warm hand
snug and safe in mine.
She stood, shyly in contemplation,
then smiled with trusting satisfaction.
In the warmth of our bed,
she lay facing away,
snuggled in close and curled
until, overwhelmed,
I began to silently cry.
Then gradually
we merged in tears,
becoming one,
and I awoke,
lying on my damp pillow,
my husband sleeping next to me in
the early morning hush.
Outside were the first crimson streaks
of a dawning winter day.
Silverstreaks 