Prologue

prologue

There are a lot of simple truths that I’ve been taught.

           

Don’t cheat.

 

Don’t lie.

 

Don’t steal.

 

But I recall the day I stood in front of Mom and tilted my head to the side, and asked, “Mamma, why did God make dreams?”

           

I reached out to wrap my fingers around her soft, yellow sundress and she looked down at me as the waves crashed against the beach. Her blue scarf floated in the breeze and I couldn’t see her eyes through her round sun glasses.

 

I squinted in the sun and she dropped down to her knees, lightly draping her hands over my shoulders.

 

“That’s a hard question, honey,” she said quietly.

 

I wasn’t happy with that answer at all. The disappointment washed over me like the waves across the sand. “So, there’s no point?”

 

 She pursed her lips and tapped the freckle on her chin. “I guess not.”

   

 I was five years old, when my mother told me there was no point in dreams.