Senseless Dreams
We’re speeding in Mama’s 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air. Mama’s talking about new names we’ll concoct. Lives we’ll live.
“It’s a movie,” she says, smile crooked. “Our lives. We can be anyone. Romanovs, if we want. People of privilege.”
I think of him. Proclaiming Mama hysterical, a dreamer too much into writing and other subversive things. He threatened to have her committed. I think of Mama and me packing late at night, holding on to each other.
“It’ll be fine,” Mama says. “He can fuck himself.”
We need plans, not senseless dreams. But she needs to believe. So do I.
“Yes, Mama.”
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.
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