I dream of America

Reflections on a time I can't quite remember

I dream of long, laboured, corn-field framed roads. 

I dream of her mother’s car, the way it smelt when the dog sat next to me, her pink tongue flailing out of the window as we stalled on the highway in the summertime.

I dream of giggling in the canned coffee aisle of a Family Market at 12 AM, just before the start on a big road-trip from Springfield, Illinois to Baltimore, Maryland. 

I dream of spending New Year’s in her friend’s basement, feeling so drunk and unwell that I asked to go home early. 

I dream of eating a whole tub of Sabra hummus in her living room, which she told me off for doing.

I dream of the meltdown I had in the MOMA because something had gone wrong with my travel debit card, and my parents insisted on sorting it out then and there. 

I dream of the time both her and her mother told me I definitely didn’t have ADHD.

I dream of shucking corn and throwing the husks in the wrong type of ‘garden’ because of a cultural miscommunication.

I dream of the first legal drink I had in America, a glass of red wine with a plate of pasta pomodoro at an Italian bistro.

I dream of being excited to see a Pret-a-Manger at the train station in Chicago.

I dream of standing in a rural gas station, somewhere in West Virginia. I was wearing a rainbow striped shirt and my hair was bright pink. 

I dream of feeling unsafe in ways I couldn’t understand.

I dream of every Uber driver that asked me about Brexit.

I dream of lingering at the GameStop she worked at, waiting for her to come off shift so that we could finally hang out.

I dream of crushing on her mother’s boyfriend at the time for reasons I didn’t deign important enough to determine then or now.

I dream of eating a bad turkey sandwich, no connection or wifi on my phone, just the bench at the grocery store and my thoughts.

I dream of the lady at the vintage store downtown who used to be a gym-teacher but now sold paraphernalia from the 50’s to idiots like me.

I dream of her grandma buying me whatever I wanted at a Target over Christmas, so I decided on the ugliest 1920’s style hat. I don’t remember why.

I dream of watching her step-dad play folk music in his living room, his suspicious cat watching from the bookshelves.

I dream of crying in the back of the cab to Chicago O’Hare International, snot dribbling from my nose as the driver tried to ignore my sobs.

I dream of the katsu curry at H-Mart. 

I dream of Italian beef sandwiches, extra jous.

I dream of washing up in her kitchen and not knowing how to properly load a dishwasher because I’m poor and from England.

I dream of having to nervously step up the stairs to the attic because they hadn’t been re-carpeted and the pins were all sticky out and scary.

I dream of showing her and her sister an episode of Bagpuss because I thought it was crazy that they’d never heard of Bagpuss.

I dream of the plushy mattress topper she owned that made falling asleep feel angelic.

I dream of playing house in the St Louis Ikea. 

I dream of cuddling on a hotel bed in Chicago, still in full cosplay from the convention we’d attended that day with our friends.

I dream of the first time I saw a firefly, sat on the porch swing in her backyard. I’d never seen one before.

I dream of driving through the neighbourhood to spot the Christmas lights, bags of microwave popcorn on our laps as we listened to the radio and talked about nothing.

I dream of choosing a song on the aux of her friend’s car and the whole group nodding their heads in approval.

I dream of my aunt and uncle stopping by the local brewery that her friend’s family owned on a stop during their Route 66 motorcycle tour. It was awkward.

I dream of the butterfly that she found and nursed back to life at the coffee roastery she worked at.

I dream of walking her dog through the local park, just before sun down set in. 

I dream of learning what a ‘flight’ of pancakes was.

I dream of the gifts her mum bought me when I first landed in the states, salty peanuts and melatonin.

I dream of being scared to take the melatonin because I thought it was a scary American drug.

I dream of writing essays and poetry all over the city.

I dream of seeing my favourite painting in the Chicago Art Institute and almost crying.

I dream of lavender syrup in cold brew.

I dream of having an argument during our trip to New York City, and crying next to one another in the stairwell of our hotel. I don’t remember what the argument was about, but I don’t remember what most of our arguments were really about.

I dream of the yellow notebook I bought in St Louis, and how it perfectly matched the yellow bodysuit I’d been wearing that day.

I dream of being in a Denny’s at 3 AM with a cup of tea and some turkey bacon.

I dream of turkey bacon.

I dream of going to my first ever baseball game and not really understanding what the deal was.

I dream of going with her to register for community college and realising that American institutions truly do look the way they do in movies.

I dream of not showering for days on end because the weather was so bad that the water pipes froze over.

I dream of sitting in awkward silence with her father, because he was an introverted man that didn’t quite understand my whole deal.

I dream of going to see the second Mamma Mia movie with her younger sibling because she didn’t want to go and see it.

I dream of promises to go to Dollywood that never came through.

I dream of staying up until the early hours of the morning, applying face paint and laughing at how silly we were.

I dream of the wildflower she picked for me as we walked over a stretch of green that sat next to the highway. 

I dream of the flight home I took in 2019, not knowing it would be the last time I went to Chicago.

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