I am aware of two things: I am lost, and I’ve lost something.

Or someone.

My mouth is parched, my head throbs, and my ears burn hot.

Awareness slips in and out like a shadow. It takes me a second to realize my eyes are shut. I chide myself. Open your eyes, silly. No wonder you’re disoriented.

I’m in a familiar grocery shop. I’m six again.

I am vaguely aware that I haven’t seen Mum in a while. The panic that will inevitably set in is currently at bay. For now, I enjoy my newfound freedom.

And rows and rows of sweets.

This is the candy aisle I’ve drifted into. I look around, but everything is sterile and vacant. I hear no one, not even the store announcements. I see people, but I cannot make out their faces.

Untethered, I float upwards toward the shelves at the top. I wonder why they keep the good stuff higher up, where only the adults can reach it.

I pick up a packet of Squashies. It’s my favourite candy, but Mum likes them too. She’ll let me have it, and she’ll steal nibbles from my packet later when we sit on the couch, watching my favourite cartoon.

I’ve had enough of free rein now. Suddenly, all I want is Mum, despite the earful I’ll get for wandering away.

That’s when I see him — a little boy, no older than six, looking up at the candies. The fog is so thick I can’t see his face. I float toward him and offer him my packet. He declines. Good boy, I think. His mum taught him well.

His face is still blurry, but I’m sure that if I took his hand, I’d recognize him. I reach toward him and touch him. Immediately, he winces and withdraws. He’s smaller now as if my touch alone has shrivelled him.

I feel his soft hand, perfectly fitting inside mine. His fingers are sticky. He’s been eating candy after all. Maybe he ate what he found on the bottom shelves.

I snap at him. Look, now you’ve spoiled your dinner.

He looks hurt. Sorry, Mom, he mumbles.

This doesn’t seem right. And yet it does?

We’re the same height, but suddenly, I’m older.

A sudden urge rises in me — to hug him, or else my heart will burst at the seams.

But I’m afraid he’ll shrink further. Still, I take a chance and open my arms wide. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. I envelop him, unsure who it is I’m trying to protect — the boy or myself.

A second later, he’s gone. Shrunk into himself, withdrawn so far that I can’t see him anymore.

I want to scream but manage only a gasp.

I jolt awake in my bed, eyes closed, the fever still clinging to me like a damp sheet. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I feel her cool, soft hand on my forehead.

If I take it, I’ll know it like the back of mine, so accustomed am I to holding on to her in times of need. I feel her rugged, calloused palm — proof of the life she’s lived. I note the absence of her ring, something I had always taken for granted. Perhaps its absence is why she’s here today?

Shh now, she whispers. It was only a dream. Was it Neil you were dreaming about again? Your son is safe, playing in the next room.

Was it the same nightmare? The grocery store one? He’s not lost! It was you who kept getting lost as a child. Always the troublemaker. Always chasing candies.

I open my eyes despite the heaviness behind them. My room is dim. Sure enough, I hear Neil’s playful chatter from the next room. A packet of Squashies sits on my bedside table. The balcony door is open, letting in a cool breeze that briefly carries away the stale scent of memories.

I see the Mimosa pudicas — touch-me-nots — outside the balcony, dancing in the wind. Their leaves are shyly folded inward in the night. This is how the plant protects itself. They do the same when touched — they withdraw.

Despite myself, I laugh. I tell my mother about the strange dream my brain seems to have woven from the ordinary.

She laughs too, handing me my medicine. Take this. It will make you better, she says.

I still can’t make out her face, only her soothing touch that tells me she is my mother.

I’m drenched in sweat.

The fever must be breaking.

My mother’s form is shrinking. But this time it’s no dream.

She died two years ago, yet it feels like I’m losing her again.

I keep the medicine away for now. I need more time in this fever dream.

We need more time.

And in this brief moment, as I reach for her, she holds me.

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