Maria López

Family Play

I held her left hand and he held her right and she skipped between us, only happiness in sight.

No tremors that day, no clouds or fog or rain or wind, either. For ten minutes hiking up the hill of pastel Victorians and scattered trees, we were the family I enjoyed when I was two, the family he’d never experienced, the family a block from me whom for two years I’ve watched grow, happy for them and wishing for my own.

I didn’t even need to revisit the daydream I’d spilled all over my journal two months earlier—that daydream of him kissing my cheek as I smiled at dusky cheeks on my bosom before reaching out to his blue infinity with my hazel love and asking if we should call this seconds-old amalgamation of us Ilari. That daydream where I gleefully admitted that I’d already written this future for us that one summer day I’d plucked plums from their trees and listened to the bees buzz with want and wanted him, wanted a whole life with him, and given in to the echo of his words on one of many ten-hour video calls, that call in which he’d told me that Ilari meant “sunrise” in Quechua.

This was enough.

A precursor, proof of what we’d have in two years or three.

—is what I mantra-ed at myself.

The freshly picked strawberries scented the air. While she swung our arms, we held fast to her. I played at being her favorite human. He played at not wishing she were the boy he’d played parent to in his previous relationship.

The baguette we'd gotten for her parents stuck its head out. While she took time to process our loving silliness and attempts at sharing wisdom, we made plans. I played at believing his fear of getting re-married was something I could love away, and that I would over the course of some months do just that. He played at being open to committing when his subconscious merely sought someone’s conviction of his goodness.

The chocolate in my dress pocket started to melt. While she was here, we were present. I played at not knowing that his heart was cementing behind a curtain, a foil to the tender core I once dove into. He played at being happy to be with me in my city-for-the-time-being.

The whole time, she just played.

A projection of my dreams.

That day, none of us were who I said we were.

Today, I dream of Ilari seeming love-hours away.

Marie López is a Puerto Rican wanderer currently based in San Francisco. After studying Magazine at Syracuse University, she worked as a special correspondent for AFAR and has shared her words in Trust & Travel's journal, The Potrero View, Discretionary Love, and more.