Small

My days are very full. They are busy with the busyness of growing older and learning and planning and not planning. I have been fantasizing about weddings and drawing princesses and working. I got a job. In a small Montessori children's home.
Sometimes I stand in the kitchen and pretend that the house is mine. And it's not in the middle of town. I pretend that the children are mine. I like the wood floors and the way the light spills out onto them. I imagine that upstairs is my giant bed smashed into a corner in a bedroom and covered in quilts. Quilts in stained glass patterns and old. I relish those moments in the kitchen when I'm washing the dishes and I hear the laughter and there are paintbrushes and tiny cups covered with fingerprints to clean.
But then I realize none of it is real. The children are all students. And the house is in the middle of town. The only way I'm allowed to make bread is in a machine. I am a classroom assistant and not a mother. And there are no quilts. None. The laughter is real and the paintbrushes and the cups, but it's not mine.

I daydream far too much these days.
I only blame my latest fairytale.

But, I need a stained glass quilt. Please.