This is a true story
When I was little, I had nightmares of being chased by a
gummi bear into a beautiful castle with rooms after rooms after rooms until I
landed in a small study flooded with sunlight where there was a priest who
gleefully took me in his arms to tickle the life out of me. Yes, a true story.
Today I chase this dream for its beauty, its helplessness, its gaslighting, for
how revolting it is and filled with light. It’s true, I swear. All of it. Don’t
believe me? This couldn’t have happened? But it did. Look, there is the gummi
bear, gingerbread man grin on his face, but somehow less mean and therefore
even more frightening because who doesn’t want to be captured by a smiling
gummi bear? Right? Scaredy cat. But I wasn’t a cat, but I was scared, but there
was this beautiful castle. What child doesn’t want to run through a castle,
unrestricted, their sandals clap-clap-clapping on the precious ivory-inlaid
hardwood floors without being yanked back by a wintry-faced adult or yelled at
by a museum guide? This child didn’t know there could be an adult holding zir
hand, didn’t know there could be a fatherly man dressed in uniform guiding zir
to safety. There was no knowing, just running. I’m telling the truth. We – now
it’s you and me, many decades later – arrive in the little sundrenched,
oak-paneled room and there stands the Jesuit, his yeasty smile smacking of
unctuous benevolence (is that why I don’t like smiling for pictures?) his arms
open, ready to receive me on his cruxed black bosom, all the colours in the
room so warm (who doesn’t like warmth?) and here I am, to have his tickles rain
on me, blow by blow. It is so. Who believes me?
(Are you
an adult? Take my hand and come run me with, and we’ll see what’s beyond that
room, let’s run past that black-robed man, let him stand mouth open and empty
handed, and run through the vast rest of the castle, my sandals and your fine
polished loafers clap-clap-clapping on the floor that’s dazzling marble and
lapis lazuli now. Let’s make it come true.)
Isabella Mori lives on the unceded, traditional and ancestral lands of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh people aka Vancouver, Canada. They are the author of three books of and about poetry, including Not So Pretty Haiku. They also write fiction and nonfiction and are the founder of Muriel’s Journey Poetry Prize, Canada’s most unusual poetry prize. Publications have been in places such as Circle of Salt, State Of Matter, Cutting Letters Anthology, Presence, Signs Of Life, The Group Of Seven Reimagined and the award-winning Through The Portal. Believe Me, Isabella's book of stories, poems, interviews and research about mental health and addiction, was released in April 2025.