( 1987 )

DOROTHY HOLLY BELLE AND JAMES TEDDY HOWARD were their names.

Dorothy smells of the crisp, untarnished leather books, embellished at the seams with its silken thread inwreathed between delicate, peaches, and cream pages. Her rich dark skin, lightly dusted from burnished, halcyon tear droplets from the glistening sun woven together at the seams from darkening hues of English oaks smears from the tipsy summer rains. The dark ink-stained sky spills its soft-feathered oracles of silver labyrinths, saturating her euphoric kinks and curls of her glossed hair, that cascades like a waterfall down her back. She's a jungle of enchanting entanglements within the tatters of crystalline, crown jewels glittering across the soft navy-blue painted night sky. She writes the gentle letters and words with the rustic, ancient stars that dangle on every word her lips tumble out.

She indulges in the soft-hued silvered and halcyon moonlight magic with the blushing, ivory lilies, waltzing with the warmth of the soft breeze. Brushes of vanilla and butterscotch, delicate kisses smears on her neck.  Dorothy Holly Belle once reminded me of Wendy. It was like she was a distant memory, only to be remembered again by closing my eyes.

Dorothy Holly Belle was once my mother.

James was a young, reckless man who hums his harmonious melodies of golden warmth and the gentle, soft kisses of life enlace in tips of his star-dusted, delicate fingertips. He tugs at the strings of the gnarled holly branches with the soft creases of soft-feather wings that cascade down the trembling branches. The silken warmth of his lips soaked from honeyed aromas of cinnamon and creamy buttermilk. Flecked flames of radiance, trickle-down his young, dark skin, eclipsing his heart of gold, wearing the mantle of drunken, pale, freckles of stars. When he waltzes with the ashen, illuminating moon, he takes my mama in the warmth of his arms, whispers of one thousand promises are tucked in nestles of gleaming gold and silver hearts. Mama once loved wearing denim, cobalt jeans while James once loved wearing star-sewn Peter Pan sweaters.

My parents once reminded me of Peter Pan and Wendy.

The warmth of their lips usurps in the burnishing of the delicate, flickers of the stars alluring clashing against the moonlight magic. Silken, woolen periwinkle, and willow sweaters with the sweet entanglements of hazelnuts and delicately colored apricots. The aureate muddles of hushed golden slumbers and delirious giggles ripple in the periwinkle, lukewarm twilight. Wrapped in a cocoon of mama's soft, knitted chestnut blankets against winter's frigid, bitter kisses. I remember my father always nuzzling his head into mama's chest, with her gentle, flaccid butterfly kisses freshly peppered on his forehead, entangled in her honey and cinnamon warmth, hearing soft, delicate tickles of her heart. Mama would gingerly stroke her delicate, feathery fingers through the chatoyant crinkles of his dusky-hued hair, tainted with silvery bellows of pale, glistening stardust. They slowly melted away in the crimson smears of twisted magnolia branches burnished with curls of sun-kissed winters, quivers, and vibrance of cinnamon-honeyed lips painting against the pale, opaline horned moon until their palms ignited. He loved her as Peter Pan had once loved Wendy.

"Dorothy, darling, can stay like this a little bit longer? It feels nice."

"We can stay like this as long as you want, Teddy Bear."

Sun-kissed, hazel chestnut eyes engulf in the crimson, golden-hued, flickering flames that tenderly dance and trickle down her dark, moon-flecked skin. She loves the way her ringlets of dusky hues, lightly drum on the sunny luminosity on her cheeks. Tatters of lambent, crystalline snowflakes of silver-speckled stars with the burnished, silken sun between the tip of her fingertips, celestial hisses hearth of the willows cloying on her folklore, denim-blue overalls laying on top of her periwinkle woolen sweater. Her incarnadine, cherry-red lips tug into a grin as she runs through the sienna-brown trees flushed in the tender, brilliance, newborn ignition of the golden-hued sunbeams. The spirals of the milky, illustrious smoke dawdle past her as ebony, coils that bounce, flourishing her shoulders. She's only so young but has a heart of gold.

That young girl with a heart of gold was once me November 17, circa 1985.

I remember softly caressing the blushing, ashen-white lilies with my dainty, petite fingers.  Tiny specks of hazy dust dance in the shaft of the afternoon sunlight, blanketing golden, the sun-wretched field of blushing lilies, in the warmed, golden hues of the illuminating sun rays. The sepia-brown labyrinths of snarled heartwoods was an efflorescent Garden of Eden, smearing up against the kalopsia of the sun's warmth. Despite November's hued, scintillating winter nestles, summer's flaxen angel wings always found a way to paint its orphic, heaven tinctured in Jupiter's lavender moons. My freckles seemed to tousle under wavering, crimson leaves, rustling amidst tattered fractures of my leather-colored boots. Drinking in moments of the rumples of ever-changing leaves, and hummings of the auspicious daylight, I remember playing under woodlands of soft oaks, always on the run from Captain Hook.

My father had always played Captain Hook while I played a Wendy. We traveled to Neverland under the incandescence of the moon's lissome, silvery smile under patterns of gilden, silken sheaths. Hearths of winter willows knotted up against painted-pastel, hazel wooden walls. Mellows of rasping ponds of gleaming mirrors of silver, tainted by labyrinths of ashen-frosted swirls, pirouetting on lunar surfaces of the pond. Gilded meadows, dancing among flaxen-cinnamon woods and wrinkled, ivory cardigan sweaters. He finds my heart cuddled between lavender, ginger-coiled clouds.

One hundred one malachite, flanked Peter Pan collars and periwinkle gowns, one hundred one journeys to Neverland, and one hundred one folklore, denim jeans. One hundred one frisky escapes from Captain Hook. One hundred one swims in Mermaid Lagoon. One hundred one sprinkles of pixie dust.  One hundred one trips to Neverland for seven years. One hundred one adventures to Neverland seeing my darling Peter Pan.

His lips were painted from fresh, young peaches, clasped by ivory, feathered wings. Tan and brown, freckled skin grips pale lights, and tapered, laced breaths of moon-soaked skies. Tanned fingertips dances upon ginger, tainted cheeks, over trickles of flames. Ambrosial, hyaline morning-lily dew, seeps ocean warmth through his elongated, silken eyelashes. Flutters of little wisps of his red, tousled hair lightly tip over like a bucket of paint, garnishing the white lilies, besmirched on my overalls. Sweet, milk, and honey tears rupture from paper moons, bathes in amber, June skies.

He loved me like Peter Pan loved Wendy.

"Lora, darling?"

"Yes, Char?"

"Can we stay like this for a little while longer? It feels nice."

"We can stay like this for as long as you want, pumpkin."

"Good, because I wasn't planning on leaving so soon."

"Neither was I."

authors note :

hello !! It's been a while, but I finally got a chapter out.. also i apologize for it being so short, and how crusty it is but i tried 😭
I also removed some chapters cause i hated the way they were written

thank you guys for all the support and your patience !! the next chapter should actually be longer and really sad, so prepare any tissues needed. ily all so much !! <33