She had hair like glass
and she stood in the church
before her congregation
and raised her arms to pray.
I watched her.
I watched her for a minute
before she was beside me,
behind me
and I turned to her
to face her
so I could read her expression
when she told me that her daughter
would be named for me
and I was to be the godmother
and her husband agreed.
And all the while,
a little boy
no more than four
sat beside me,
smiling
and wide-eyed
and never spoke a word
but was happy
and giggled.
His blond hair and light eyes
and the way he kicked his legs back and forth
as they dangled from his seat
were enough to distract me from the fact
that I had no idea who he was,
where he came from,
or that he did not belong to her
as I assumed.
And I felt so content,
safe,
and healed.
Until I realized the surrealness of it all
upon waking.
