Perhaps She Would Be a Pterodactyl
Anesce Dremen
When I was five-fingers old, I had a dinosaur egg. It was an opal-hued stone without the luster, serene as satin. At night I tucked her into my armpit and hoped that if I loved her enough, she would hatch. While gone, I kept her warm within a dresser drawer and left a feast of Hershey kisses with their crinkly peaks glistening.
Perhaps she would be a pterodactyl—we could fly anywhere and never, ever have to bring my pesky sister! After an argh-you-mint, I wanted to flick my sister for being stupid. But that wasn’t nice. Instead, I took a tickle-me-pink crayon to paper: You are very st--
“Mama, does stupid have one or two o’s?”
She put down her cross-stitching and yanked me from the den. I should’ve known better (banned words included meanie-butt, idiot, and dodo) and I wasn’t allowed to cry because I deserved the punishment (spanking, the time-out chair, or worse).
Mom dropped me onto the speckled white counter in the bathroom. She took a creamy white bar of soap and ran it under water. I held my breath.
“Stick out your tongue.” I jerked backwards, rattling the mirror. Mom whacked my leg with her hand, leaving a staccato stain. I bit my lip, refusing to howl entry. Had she pinched my nose or yanked my hair to pry open my mouth?
Mom thrust the bar thoroughly over my tongue; it caked against my front right tooth.
“Close your mouth. Keep that bar in for five minutes. If it comes out, I’ll give you something real to cry about.”
Retching was the only taste to remember, as if little bubbles throttled my throat.
“That’s what you get for having such a dirty mouth.”
Dad came home early, while I was wailing. As the door slammed, I threw up in the sink. He stormed into the bathroom. Grease stained his faded charcoal uniform and oil snickered across his black, steel-toed boots. When I stuck my tongue underneath the faucet, the suds thickened. I sobbed until I hyperventilated. Furious, Dad forbade Mom from washing my mouth out with soap again. My father was my hero only when he rescued me from my mother.
The other times Dove flossed my mouth was when I “talked back.” I hated how my questions were clogged with “because I said so.” I hiccuped “why” or “why not” until threats burst, sudsy.
Yet, for my dino baby, my questions were a skating rink of fun. During bathtime, I nestled her inside a clean washrag on the counter and checked frequently for cracks. I sang high-pitched promises: “I’m gonna give you a name once you poke your head out!” She was far from stoo-pid, and much more fun to be with.
Mom frowned when she caught me cooing. “You’re too old to have imaginary friends.”
I froze.
Threats were more commonplace than meals: we didn’t deserve everything we were given. I was scared that I would return from school to an empty room, just as they described: no books, no beds, no toys. Empty, just like our hearts were. What if my egg hatched while I was in preschool? Would Mom also wash her mouth out with soap? Would she throw her away?
I couldn’t lose her. So, I nestled her plump form into the front pocket of my salmon pink corduroy overalls, cushioned by Kleenex. She was silent during music and math class. On the playground, I built a nest out of mulch; we kept each other safe as other kids egg-nor-ed us. During story time, my favorite place in the whole wide world, I wondered: would she hatch?
Perhaps she would be a pterodactyl—we could fly anywhere and never, ever have to bring my pesky sister! After an argh-you-mint, I wanted to flick my sister for being stupid. But that wasn’t nice. Instead, I took a tickle-me-pink crayon to paper: You are very st--
“Mama, does stupid have one or two o’s?”
She put down her cross-stitching and yanked me from the den. I should’ve known better (banned words included meanie-butt, idiot, and dodo) and I wasn’t allowed to cry because I deserved the punishment (spanking, the time-out chair, or worse).
Mom dropped me onto the speckled white counter in the bathroom. She took a creamy white bar of soap and ran it under water. I held my breath.
“Stick out your tongue.” I jerked backwards, rattling the mirror. Mom whacked my leg with her hand, leaving a staccato stain. I bit my lip, refusing to howl entry. Had she pinched my nose or yanked my hair to pry open my mouth?
Mom thrust the bar thoroughly over my tongue; it caked against my front right tooth.
“Close your mouth. Keep that bar in for five minutes. If it comes out, I’ll give you something real to cry about.”
Retching was the only taste to remember, as if little bubbles throttled my throat.
“That’s what you get for having such a dirty mouth.”
Dad came home early, while I was wailing. As the door slammed, I threw up in the sink. He stormed into the bathroom. Grease stained his faded charcoal uniform and oil snickered across his black, steel-toed boots. When I stuck my tongue underneath the faucet, the suds thickened. I sobbed until I hyperventilated. Furious, Dad forbade Mom from washing my mouth out with soap again. My father was my hero only when he rescued me from my mother.
The other times Dove flossed my mouth was when I “talked back.” I hated how my questions were clogged with “because I said so.” I hiccuped “why” or “why not” until threats burst, sudsy.
Yet, for my dino baby, my questions were a skating rink of fun. During bathtime, I nestled her inside a clean washrag on the counter and checked frequently for cracks. I sang high-pitched promises: “I’m gonna give you a name once you poke your head out!” She was far from stoo-pid, and much more fun to be with.
Mom frowned when she caught me cooing. “You’re too old to have imaginary friends.”
I froze.
Threats were more commonplace than meals: we didn’t deserve everything we were given. I was scared that I would return from school to an empty room, just as they described: no books, no beds, no toys. Empty, just like our hearts were. What if my egg hatched while I was in preschool? Would Mom also wash her mouth out with soap? Would she throw her away?
I couldn’t lose her. So, I nestled her plump form into the front pocket of my salmon pink corduroy overalls, cushioned by Kleenex. She was silent during music and math class. On the playground, I built a nest out of mulch; we kept each other safe as other kids egg-nor-ed us. During story time, my favorite place in the whole wide world, I wondered: would she hatch?
I don’t remember losing my dinosaur egg.
“Now you’ve killed your dinosaur egg.” Mom snickered on that autumn afternoon. “Should’ve thought twice before taking it to school.” I bawled too hard to correct Mom that the baby wasn’t an ‘it.’ She was lost. She needed our help.
When Dad returned from work, he didn’t change out of his mechanic uniform; we immediately returned to the playground to search piles of leaves. A drain sucked in water faster than I could walk. I sobbed not for the loss of the stone but because I knew that without my warmth, the nameless one within would die. My carelessness had not only prevented a dinosaur from hatching; I blamed myself for egg-sting-squishing the last of the species.
“Now you’ve killed your dinosaur egg.” Mom snickered on that autumn afternoon. “Should’ve thought twice before taking it to school.” I bawled too hard to correct Mom that the baby wasn’t an ‘it.’ She was lost. She needed our help.
When Dad returned from work, he didn’t change out of his mechanic uniform; we immediately returned to the playground to search piles of leaves. A drain sucked in water faster than I could walk. I sobbed not for the loss of the stone but because I knew that without my warmth, the nameless one within would die. My carelessness had not only prevented a dinosaur from hatching; I blamed myself for egg-sting-squishing the last of the species.
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Anesce Dremen is a nomadic U.S. writer and educator. A first generation college student and domestic violence survivor, Anesce Dremen studied in four cities in China with the support of the Critical Language Scholarship and the Gilman Scholarship. She was a 2022-23 Fulbright-Nehru ETA in India. Her work has been published in Stillhouse Press, SPAN Magazine, Persephone’s Daughters, The Bombay Literary Magazine, Tea Journey, Tiny Spoon, Shanghai Poetry Lab, and among others. Anesce is often found with a tea cup in hand, traveling between the U.S., China, and India.
Social Media Instagram: @AnesceDremen X: @AnesceDremen Facebook: Anesce Dremen Website: AnesceDremen.com Monthly Newsletter |
Photo credit: In collaboration with Balvinder Singh
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