With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

 

Dreams

I sometimes wonder what my mother might have dreamed for me if she hadn’t died when I was born. If she would have wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, if she would have been pushier to ensure I did better in school. I love ’Buela, and I’m so lucky to have her, but as supportive as she is, ’Buela isn’t the type to run down to a school and smack a counselor upside the head for discouraging me from applying somewhere. ’Buela isn’t the type to demand the school test me to see why I get so mixed up with directions or struggled to speak early on. ’Buela walks through the world with her hands palms up; she takes what’s given to her in stride and never complains or cries.

I dream every single day for Babygirl. I see people in business suits on the bus, and I imagine Babygirl grown up with a briefcase and a nice executive office job. I watch a TV show and imagine Babygirl as a famous actress winning an Oscar. There’s so much I want for her that sometimes I think the seams of my skin aren’t enough to contain every hope I have. And I whisper it to her all the time. When I’m feeding her. When she’s asleep in my arms. When we are playing at the park. I whisper all the everything I know she can be and the ways I’ll fight for her to be them. I want her to know her entire life her mommy may not have had a powerful job or made millions, but that her moms did everything so that she could be an accumulation of the best dreams.