I am the dreamer, a girl, one who reads too much and whose imagination is, in the words of her parents and teachers, "way too wild." In my dream I am walking down a hill on an ancient cobblestone path toward the seashore. It isn't the country I live in. There aren't as many trees, the sea is smaller and bluer, and the sun is impossibly bright. On either side of me lie the walls and little houses of a fishing village. Everything is made of stone and stucco, and I am not a girl, but a woman -- a woman I may or may not ever be.
A breeze starts up, moving laundry on a line not far from me, and I hear a baby's cry. I look up and there in the bright sky see a glint of metal. It is a missile, I know, because that's what the glint means. It carries in it something that will bloom like the heart of a star, and once it has bloomed, bring night to day.
As I watch, the metallic thing explodes in the distant sky and the bloom begins.
I kneel, close my eyes, stop my breath, stop even my heart, stop the breeze and the baby’s cry, so that all in the world is still. I have never done this before, I tell myself, and yet of course I have -- because I am the woman, the one I may or may never be, not the girl who is dreaming it.