Jessamy Sleigh Discovering Her Superpower

I still remember that dismal dream. It was the strangest that I had had yet, and that is saying something, since I am the ripe, old age of 60 and hold a strangely lengthened dream memory. At least that was what my husband, Anders Sleigh told me while we were both still alive, God rest his soul. I still remember the very first dream I had, on my fourth birthday, down to the dot (March 20, 1965 was the day, if you happen to be a mathematician who wishes to know), the first thing about the dream was that it smelled of pink cotton candy and was full of a make-believe cast, with characters such as Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile from the classic book written by Bernard Waber of the mouse from another book written by Beverly Cleary. They were all sociable, and I was taller and larger than them in every way because of how close I was to my fourth age. When I would learn how to read later that year, who knew what books I would invest myself in the storylines of? I would put away the Fox in the Socks created Dr. Seuss and pick up more educated novels such as… “The Mystery of the Whispering Mummy” by Robert Arthur Jr. or maybe some French novel, like “Belle et Sébastien” by Cecile Aubrey. (I would be lying if I told you I was not born a dreamer of all days. I still have not seen the day where I smile as I am reading stories to children about things such as mice or crocodiles.) Anyway, the cotton candy smelling characters were so happy to be celebrating my birthday with me, raising their glass for toasts to me several times. No fights (except for the food fight at the very end, as I slurped up the sweet pink cupcake frosting from my cheek…yum delicious). No disagreements. It was perfect. I should have known better by the time I opened my periwinkle blue eyes in my snug as a bug in a rug bed the next morning, wishing my life could be a dream. Dreams can seem to last forever, but they really are done in a flash, unfortunately. So, my power proved pretty useless near all of my life. And when do dreams, real dreams, come true anyway? I’m not dwelling in a sad life in that previous sentence, I don’t wish that you misunderstand. I have had a pretty blissful life so far. Sure, I didn’t win the fourth grade spelling bee (that little brown-eyed brat Julie Milne did), or win any of the starring roles when I tried out for any of my high-school plays, but I was immensely blessed where it actually mattered. I met Anders Sleigh in my first year at my town university (my mother and father, Kelly and Manuel DeRoux couldn’t afford anything better), and we were married in the cute, brown-bricked church the very next year. Anders and I had four children together at a reasonable time, when we had just barely more to rub together than two pennies. Their names were Manuel, Roland, Muriel, and Somerset. I had lived a pretty blessed life. It was simple, but blessed. None of my dreams had ever come true, but that was never any reason to complain. That is, until that fateful day in 2020. I still held an odd dream memory, but I had become accustomed to it. It had truly never bothered me, why bother anyone with more than their name if their name was Jessamy Sleigh, as mine was. (Not that I minded that anymore either, people just called me Jessie now. It wasn’t my very first day of preschool anymore, when everyone in the class was just learning how to pronounce anything.) Anyway, I woke up from my nap in the late afternoon, as I usually did, ever since I reached the age that I no longer shared a bad with Anders, at least in person. Everyday, my naps seemed to be growing in length, and I didn’t mind that either. That gave me more time to dream. Usually, my dreams had something to do with Anders, our children, or our grandchildren. Things I wished could either be true, or still be true, at least as it pertained to my love. This outlandish night imagining was awfully outlandish, not too say it was something that I dreaded or wished would never happen ever, it was just a thought that there were no particular peculiars to. The dream occasion was my death. Not to say that Anders wasn’t there. He was the last thing that I felt before I opened my eyes startlingly with the knowledge that I obviously wasn’t dead yet, and that it was sadly time to arise. I looked at the blinking in scarlet red time on my clock. 4:09pm…not an unreasonable time to start getting ready to visit Somerset (or Somer, as we called her now…she didn’t really like her given name either) (it’s a family curse is my guess) (my Anders named her anyway).