Did I hold a child in my arms?

Or was it all in my mind?

I am trying to pinpoint the source of this desire. Was it the forgotten dream I had during the mandatory Sunday afternoon siesta? Did I hold a child in my hands, or was it all in my mind?

Was it the cute baby boy who asked for water and excitedly pressed the dispenser button for cold water as I directed, chuckling as the water drilled into the plastic cup in my hand? Was it the baby whose maternity bag I had to get from his mother, who held my gaze during worship with the most piercing baby eyes? Cute baby boy did not finish his water; he pressed it back into my hands with a smile that split his face, and mine, in two, and ran off to handle the critical matter of play.

Now, sitting up in bed with a nonchalant breeze tingling my knees, I remember a dream, a dream from long ago. I held my baby in my arms, a dream girl. It was a dream but I knew she was mine. I could tell, in that way we can tell about dreams, that I held her for nine months within, and if I could I would hold her forever.

I bathed her in a house that smelt like mine. Between my legs, she pouted and cooed, looking up at me. I smiled indulgently. My baby girl. Mine. Voices wafted in and out from below, and I raised my ears at the sound of laughter, love and family. She was safe. She with me. Me with them.

My ears itch as water fills my eyes. Yes, my to-do list for work tomorrow was scary, but I could survive it. A desire like this? Far beyond my reach and I could not do it alone. Her name sang like a song in my ears. Z…

Shaking my head to exorcise my audacious yearning, I pick up my iPad to play Crazy Chef. It’s Monday tomorrow. This is no time for dreams. Only capitalism.

My mother walks in, and I decide to give her my attention. Maybe I could practice being a daughter before wanting one.

— Odimma.