I dream of a blue house, sometimes. I see it quite clearly, especially on rainy mornings like this one. It’s a small wooden house on a hill, leaning trustingly into the green forest behind it.

The man I love has painted it blue for me, because blue reminds him of freedom. It is just the right shade of blue, not too dark and not too light. It is the shade of blue that seems endless, like the lit sea or the clear sky.

My kitchen window opens into the forest. When I throw the windows open in the morning (no glass, no wrought iron bars), I can smell the trees, I can hear them breathing. I keep a rack of mismatched teacups on the kitchen counter. I mismatch them on purpose. On rainy mornings like this one, I choose the deep green teacup with the chipped rim. I hum while I stir my tea, and his. Making tea for each other is our ritual. What better way to show love than to paint a house blue, or to fix a cup of something warm? He seldom hears me hum. I keep my humming soft and secret.

In my blue house, I imagine myself a bird, sometimes. Birds are everywhere, here. We have our tea on the porch, which sits on the edge of the hill. We talk, and we laugh. There are parrots here, and ruddy ground doves. Tanagers, mockingbirds and hummingbirds come by, too. Sometimes I think that there are chickens and guinea fowl, but I haven’t decided yet. There is a dog, a sweet,long-legged, half-grown pup.

We work hard, in the dream. I paint, and we plant things together. My hands are rough, but I don’t mind. There is loveliness in that. 

It is difficult to wake, after the dream. My window opens into a bricked-up yard, and I cannot see very far at all.