I am four years old and my bedroom has one window. During the course of my day I almost never notice this window. I’m only four and when standing up I cannot see out. So most of my time is spent examining the velvety bits of my wallpaper and feeling how the carpet fibers are all attached to something bigger than themselves.
I am four years old and I am awake when I shouldn’t be. The dark outside is too dark and the light inside is too bright. And maybe for the first and only time I feel compelled to look out the window.
The window part of the hole in the house is gone now and I must be standing on a stool or box because I can lean out of the window and look to the right and left.
During the day my backyard is actually a giant field and the neighbouring houses are so far away that I never register their existence at all. But on this dark and bright night my house is one of many in a row that stretches beyond consciousness in either direction.
Looking to my left I can see that every house in this row has a window to the child’s bedroom. And I can see that every window but mine has been reached by long, shiny silver planks. And I can see the other kids climbing out of their houses and walking up the skinny slopes.
My eyes follow one of the planks from the house towards the field and I see what all the kids are heading towards.
A giant Jabba the Hutt, as large as 4 or 5 of the houses in a row, is sitting in my field. I know I am supposed to walk the plank leading towards his bruise coloured body, just as the other kids are doing. But I am thoroughly terrified and I want nothing to do with Jabba. Because I am four years old and I have seen Return of the Jedi for the first time.
Because this is a dream. One I will never, ever forget.
This is part of the Writer’s Digest A Year of Writing Prompts