I’m scribbling on the deck again. That’s what you do if you don’t have a laptop. It’s a perfect afternoon to sit out here and enjoy a beer. But I better do my writing first, if I want to make sense with my tenses. I wonder if it’s a Chinese thing – not being correct with my tenses.
The melody of the theme song from the Titanic ‘My Heart Will Go On’ had inspired me to write my post In My Dreams for Friday Fictioneers. Yes, I heard Celine Dione’s voice in my head, too. The music lifted me high above the clouds and I touched Mr. Moon’s face. It felt so real. It was magical.
You know what they say about dreams. If you can dream/imagine it, it can come true. Those are one kind of dreams. Then there are the kind that are harbingers of the future. I believe in dreams. I am very superstitious, like all Chinese. I cross my slippers to ward off ghosts.
My mother had such a dream the night before my accident. She dreamt of a one-armed girl. The next day I had my accident. I did not lose an arm, but it got badly burned. I had been playing in the courtyard with my uncle. He was only a year older than me. We were chasing and harassing the chickens when we were called in to have some sweet taro root soup.
We fought over the biggest bowl. I grabbed at it, knocking it over and spilling the hot, sticky soup over my left arm. It was winter and I had on a sweater with long sleeves. My mother had trouble getting me out of it.
I have memories of chasing chickens, being at the table and grabbing at the bowl, but none of the impact. Nature has a way of protecting us from unbearable pain. Now, even the memories are just a memory and not the real thing.
My arm would not heal no matter how many remedies my mother and the aunties tried. My mother said I was very well behaved. I did not fussed nor cried. I only said it hurt. Finally someone told my mother to take me to the city and see a doctor. In the early 50’s and in rural China, medical attention was not common.
My mother hired a bicycle taxi and took me to the hospital in Taisan, Guangdong. I remembered going through arches to the hospital and that our taxi driver was not very skilled. It took a few visits before my arm finally healed. It scarred half my forearm, from elbow down. Still, I was lucky I had full mobility of the arm.
In a sense, my mother’s dream came true or you can say that she was warned of impending danger. But what good did it do? It still happened. It was fate.