Mama Kat cooked up a doozy this week and offered me a chance to write a poem or post about dreams. Beware. This post may or may not be under the influence of Vicodin…
5 days post surgery. Still pain pulses to the surface. This ornery Southern girl fights the body’s plea for pain medication. Ibuprofen should be enough. But alas, the need for more potent narcotics wins.
That little white pill claims the pain and the ability to remain alert and attentive. My body has no choice but to succumb to the drug induced haze that resembles sleep.
On the other side of consciousness is a rainbow of crazy that is unlocked only by the creations of modern chemistry. A filmstrip loops the most unlikely of scenarios that leave me questioning my sanity as daybreak finally arrives.
The cabin. Our most treasured of places. My FIL fueling a fire that moved perilously close to encompassing the cabin and injuring loved ones. I’m left screaming for him to douse the flames. He swears he has it under control. He flips the blow up pool and claims to suffocate the fire with it. The plastic slowly drips and ignites making the fire grow to unprecedented proportions. He readjusts the pool, seemingly to act as a snifter of sorts. Still the flames reach out. I wake myself from the depths of my screaming subconscious, cursing my FIL for being so stupid.
I have baked the cake. It is cooled and on the decorating board. An empty canvas begging to be filled. There is a deadline. I must get this done. I roll the fondant. Part of it red, part of it white. I cut it diagonally and attempt to place it on the cake. It doesn’t fit the way that I envisioned. I knead it back together and roll it out again. Somehow it takes up the table length. I repeat the process yet again. I spend hour after hour making the red and white match each other and come to a center point. I am content to have the edges be somewhat ruffled. The next cake is place on top. I ponder if I can place it already frosted or if I will need to attempt to frost it already attached to the fondant. I try it both ways and in the end reach for the most amazing tool that seems to keep the frosting from touching the fondant. The rest of the frosting is mixed and ready to be applied. More white, more red and a touch of black. But I must make sure I have the gel for the middle. There is still so much work to do and time is running out. I am cursing myself for not using other colors. For not being more creative on the initial cake. I awaken exhausted from the long night of tedious work. Hoping and praying that when the moment arrives to actually make this cake the process is much more smooth.
The end to the Vicodin frenzy is near. I hope… My body craves permanent release from pain. My brain longs for mindless sleep, for peaceful dreams. Dreams where my family is normal and my OCD issues are not quite so obvious.