Then there was the wart on my thumb, like a hangnail at first. In no time it resembled a miniature cauliflower, big as a ladybug. By a fortnight there were swarms of warts on other fingers, then similar nubs crawling across the bridge of my nose, up my elbows, and the tops on my feet. I wasn't worried about it; I figured I caught a virus. They'd just leave in time, the way the flu does once it runs its course.
But it wasn't quite that simple. The mold was creeping onto the walls, the windows, my clothes. The spider webs clotting the ceilings dimmed the lights. How long had the birds been scratching in the attic, the cataracts clouding my eyes?
I finally realized what was in store for me; the dragonflies perched on the bathtub, the sink, the windowsills. They seemed to be waiting. When the dreams started I wasn't alarmed: it had to go there too, into my thoughts, my imagination. It was everywhere, so it had to seep in.
It's no different, I figure, than one season invading another, a nib branching, circumnavigating into a frond. One day you announce it's spring, though the truth is that its been happening all along, without fanfare. The backyard gutted with brambles, grass; the night filled with the songs of frogs.
Really, what's to be done? Maybe it's for the best, besides in an odd way I feel wanted. Don't tell the doctors, but the dreams are the most lovely I've ever had.
I greet it; I welcome it all into me. Come in, I say, sit at my bedside, eat all that I have on my tray, crawl inside the covers. Seek me out, take up residence within my skin. Get comfy, stranger…teach me more about the night sky, show me more pictures.
