Dreaming: Hers

I had every reason to feel ashamed of what I was thinking, because contrary to the assessment of my fourteen year old self, the reality was that Dad had simply gotten lucky.  He played a few games of chance at a late night gambling table and ended up winning thousands of dollars. When he explained his newfound riches, I joined him in rejoicing. How cool was it to have your father win at a high-risk poker table? And when Dad told my mother how much he’d won? I tried to imagine her first reaction. Maybe her heart jumped. Maybe she thought about finally getting ahead, that she, my father, four brothers and I would leave Cleveland, where we were crowded together in seven rooms, and head out to the Promised Land: the dream of middle-class arrival--a home in the suburbs with the white picket fence and a garden. The idea must have been so vivid to her after years of cramped living.  It must have been a relief to her that she and Dad would have a real bedroom door of their own at last.