DAR= dark and MI= milk referring to chocolate, as lovers of this rich goddess know, and Dreams as I slept inventing this recipe.
Ingredients were as follows:
Take mini muffin pans, pour in 1/2 batter of dark chocolate cake mixture, chewier for those who like brownie texture, less flour, then add milk and sprinkles so when it bakes somehow the sprinkles remain upright like little chocolate soldiers, then coat with milk chocolate icing. All done by eye, no measurements. Darmi Dreams roll out on a conveyor belt and all I see are delicious bite size morsels.
My name is Darmi but its meaning is far from the treats I dream of. My parents, Darlene and Mike each claim a half of me. We lived in a trailer in Fair Lane Trailer Park. The name sounded like a place with soft breezes and bright wildflowers, yet it was so far from that it should have been called: The Trailer Park Lane to Nowhere.
I had started calling my parents by their first names when I turned 13, instead of Momma and Daddy. They didn’t seem to care. I never felt they were my parents, more like a movie about a 13 year old living with two strangers.
Darlene and Mike, dropouts from Keystone Street High School. Mother got pregnant and Daddy married her. Stories were, they swore to get their GEDs but one thing led to another and they didn’t want to study. Daddy got a job at Norm’s Bait and Tackle Shop and Mother worked at the local Farmer’s Market helping farmers sell their produce.
Both came home short tempered from work and expected me to at least start dinner and pick up a little when I got home from school. I did it because I swore on my blood, I’d get out of here as soon as I could. To seal my oath, I took one of Mike’s penknives and cut a small line near my wrist. I could always say I cut myself washing a glass. My scar would remind me to never, ever be like them.
I didn’t have friends come to the trailer. I would go to their homes. I just said my parents didn’t want me unsupervised with friends when they weren’t home, so that ended that.
I did my homework. Wasn’t an A student but average enough to make my way, maybe go to a community college. My guidance counselor said I had an aptitude for numbers, so there were many jobs that I could earn a living at and move away.
Every time I stepped up onto those three creaky metal stairs into the trailer, I looked at my scar and knew it wouldn’t be forever. That was hard to do. I had to act older. Sometimes Darlene and Mike brought home liquor and celebrated the end of the workday week all weekend. I stayed in my bedroom cubby and tried to read or if I could, daydream. Those were the times of my Darmi Dreams. Thinking of how sweet my life will be when properly done, ready to move forward.
I’m an adult now. No longer do I need my Darmi Dreams, nor do I see Mike and Darlene. I live on another continent. You could say that’s bittersweet.
Marea, your writing is emotional and raw, which is a compliment. I imagine this was difficult and to write and I appreciate your honesty. I know it is therapeutic to write about a difficult childhood. I’m glad you were able to physically move away. I hope you have able to emotionally move away also. I like “bittersweet” as your ending.
I’ve always wondered what it might be like to move away and start over where no one knew me, but walking in the pasture had always been my escape and I can’t image being able to live without that – so I stayed.