When I open my eyes, I find myself at the edge of what seems to be our pitch-black school square, or is it? The school is there, but the signature iron fence is noticeably missing, and the tree in the middle appears neither as large nor as dark as I remember. What’s happening here?
The neighborhood around the school is dead quiet. It's night, and everyone must have gone to bed. Only when I scan the square a second time do I finally notice something in the far corner: an old laceless sneaker dangling from a delicate foot, peeking out from jeans with heavily frayed edges, adorned with colorful patches and stickers. The rest of the girl is obscured by a much bigger boy with thick curly hair, wearing an old army jacket, also covered in stickers. He leans forward, in a clumsy attempt to kiss her, but she playfully fends him off, whispering something in his ear. He quickly glances over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching. My heart skips a beat, fearing he will spot me, but he doesn't. He looks right through me. And then, my jaw drops.
I would recognize that face everywhere and at any age. Even with that enormous amount of hair, that ridiculous moustache, that wild unkempt pirate beard and those ludicrous hippy clothes. The biggest shock however are his legs. I’ve never seen them without a wheelchair. It’s devastating to see that he once was whole and young and in love and…
Now, the girl peeks around his broad shoulder, and once again, it feels like a slap in the face. I’m looking at myself. Despite her long hair and colorful hippy makeup, she’s my spitting image. Finally, I understand why some people call me pretty—something I invariably shrug off or sabotage, as I neither wish to be beautiful nor see myself that way. I don’t need the burden of it. However, as I look at the young girl, cradled in the arms of the hippie boy, I realize that my denial is only wafer-thin and superficial—a choice more than anything else.
Suddenly, I realize that, unlike my father, my mother can actually see me. She looks me straight in the eye—first wide-eyed and bewildered, but then, the shock of recognition is slowly replaced by a radiant smile. I shiver, but not from the cold.
An uncontrollable urge to walk up to her and bury myself in her arms wells up within me—even though she’s not much older than I am. I want it so much that it hurts. I’ve missed her so deeply. I have so many questions, so many things I want to know.
But then, that moment passes also. Her eyes lose focus again. She turns her head back to the boy, as if I were never there, and answers his kiss for the first time.
This is all I get to see of my teenage parents before the blinding light returns in full force, washing out everything around me and stabbing at my eyes. I can’t shut it out. It devours me. My head throbs, my skin itches, and my eyes water. I lose all sense of direction. And then I fall.