A Scratchy, Sleepy Itch

She sat up in bed, startled with the sudden realization--no.

In the middle of the day, after eating the best peach of her life, she knew for sure--no.

After two mid-week drinks in a smokey bar she cocked her head to the side and stared blankly to the right, revelation--no.

Unlike Einstein, she never experienced a moment of clarity and awareness, a flash image of how it all works. The changes were slowly creeping their way through her body and mind like a virus. Like a frog in boiling water. She never knew what was happening.

If she tries to pinpoint the main events, the first thing to come into focus is the book, the one about science and the history of everything. She never learned science in high school, just mythology and beautiful dreams. And she loved books, loved stories, fictions and fantasy. Facts never really mattered when her own reality was so believable. Hives of doubt may have existed below the surface before the book, but with the opening of those pages she scratched the itch. It felt good to scratch. Scratching spreads the itch though.

The real main event now, reality check. The problem with reality is that it always changes, with the days and seasons and with each human being. With the dissolution of an almost thirty-year marriage, her parents. Family was a game she played with them and her sister and dogs, one cat, many houses of cards they set up and rearranged. Life imitates art. Her life was built around fiction, carefully crafted lies, secrets and childhood pain. Again, her parents. She thought it was real enough. She didn't have childhood pain. And when the cards came fluttering down she blinked, opened her mouth and squeaked. What is this? She started reading non-fiction.

She would never blame the man and woman for the changes. It was a slow, inevitable awakening from a pleasant dream. But she still feels like it's one of those dreams within a dream. Is there more to wake up from? Will the itch go away? Will nothing be left unquestioned.