All I have to do is dream little dreams

He sweeps in with his black robes flapping. My advocate is furious about my outside shower, proudly standing 6 foot 9 with a plastered wall – and nothing else. No roof. Unfinished.

“A two-day job? A two-week mess. What did you pay for?”

“A little dream,” I think staring at his brown shoes. You won’t understand.

It’s the little dreams that keep us going; alive.

And it doesn’t always pan out the way you think, but at least you can say: “I had a dream…”

Hardly nine, I dreamt about a big walking doll – but R13 stood between me and my little dream. So, for nearly a year I furiously swept the stoep, planted beans and sold them to the tannies down the street and even scooped up the dog poop that was the bane of my mother’s existence and my gagging self.

And then the day dawned: we were going to buy Lulu after school. Only, when I came home, surprise, surprise, thanks to Mom, she stood life-size on my bed. Only, she was blonde. I wanted a raven-haired Lulu. And you could never just hold her hand and walk with her.

You had to grip both her shoulders and swing those mechanical legs with all your might.

But I had my little dream, just packaged differently. And I loved her, just differently.

As differently as the round fish pond I built out of stones with my own hands.

Who cares that wine corks plugged the five leaks? Who cares that a trailing Wandering Jew had to cover the 60 imperfections? I always wanted exactly that fish spouting water in the middle surrounded by fabulous water lilies and lazy, fat orange fishes.

And as different as the soundproof kennel I designed for my old Eliza, who is petrified of thunder. Who cares that the egg boxes went soggy with the first rain, no matter how much I waterproofed it?

Who cares that I still have to wrap up her ears in my buff at the sound of the first clap? She loves her safe place – as do I.

So, ol’ brown shoes, some call them visions, others projects. I call them little dreams. Little dreams with heart that keeps your soul going and growing. That’s what you don’t understand. Get it?

Now let me go shower under the starry, starry night, please.

Carine Hartman.

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