I was married, but I didn’t live with him.
I visited him sometimes, and each time I did, his presence wrapped around me like a soft blanket. His name was Paballo—a colored man with curly hair that brushed just past his ears, forming a gentle crown of waves that looked like an untamed halo. He wasn’t too tall or too big—just right for me. When he smiled, I felt the warmth of summer kiss my soul.
We mostly spent time in his room. No music, no distractions. Just us. His room smelled like peppermint and wood polish. We’d talk for hours or just sit in silence, holding hands, admiring the rhythm of each other’s breathing like two hearts in perfect sync.
One day, I was with my mother. She asked, “When are you moving in with your husband?”
I paused. Her question stunned me, but not as much as the expression on her face—her skin was wrinkled, her eyes dull with age. My mom is only 44 in waking life, full of strength and fire. Seeing her like that made something inside me ache. Still, I replied, “So you’re okay with it? Cool, I’ll pack my things.”
But deep down, I felt conflicted. In real life, I can’t go anywhere without her permission. She holds that kind of power over me. Yet, in this dream, I was choosing love. Choosing him.
Sometimes, Paballo would shift. He became my brother for a few seconds, which felt strange but also comforting, like maybe I’d meet someone like him through my brother. Maybe fate was playing charades with my heart.
Still, the most vivid memory was his room. The way he looked at me like I was the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. I didn’t need to speak to feel heard.
Maybe it was just a dream, or maybe it was a preview of what’s waiting for me. Either way, I woke up with my heart full and my spirit humming with hope.
And for the first time in a long time—I believed.
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Image: Jr Korpa Unsplash