A dream of freedom

My palms sweat. My eyes run dry. My voice-box locks and rattles. My heart pounds—demanding parole from its rib-cage cell. I search the crowd for Mom— but my gaze is glued straight ahead, salt crusting my lashes. I whisper my mantra: There’s no synonym for dish— Wrong. Meal is. I try to hum, but my throat’s a fist. Judges lean in. The audience holds its breath. My fifth-grade teacher smiles, whispering between wrinkles, “It’s okay.” But why okay? I can’t remember why they called my name, why these lights feel like a cross-examination. I rifle through memory, come up empty— all that surfaces is a prayer: “Ground, open. Eagle, swoop. Take me anywhere but here.” Nothing moves. Tears break through, swelling my little mountain of shame.