My chest, flat and smooth, not a blemish in sight, scars of an incision underneath both breast.
My children and my wife were calling on me but I stopped to stare in the mirror.
My reflection, happy, calm, a permanent smile must be on my face, if the lines were evident. Something I don’t do.
I couldn’t feel the fog of dysphoria clouding my mind, only a sense of serenity.
My fingers twitch with excitement as I traced the scar. My battle scar; a battle I finally won. It was a moment I contemplated and wished for.
The skin tingled, sensitive to the feather like touch. Tears prickle my eyes. I felt it all.
Joy, insurmountable joy.
The funny thing is, I knew it was a dream. But… I also knew I would be there one day.
I feel it on the tips on my fingers that one day I’ll be there. And I’m okay with knowing.
Being a writer I learned you have to dream and plan, before you can make reality.
When I woke, I was running my finger where my scars would one day be. And I smiled, turned to my fiancée and spooned.
Sometimes dreams are premonitions just waiting to happen.
And I know this is something I will have déjà vu of in the future.