I have this recurring dream, and I had a variation of it again last night, that Molly didn't really die. The details are a little different each time, but always I discover her, alive and well, living in some unfamiliar apartment made familiar by all of her things. I fall into her arms and hold onto her, not wanting to ever let go again. Sometimes I am mad at her for letting me think she was gone all these years, but madder at myself for not seeking her out sooner. It's always so real to me.
Often I think to myself, inside the dream, how I've dreamed her alive a hundred times and I'm so happy that this time, this time, this time it's real. When I wake up, when I woke up this morning, I have to take a minute to think about which is real: Is she still alive, or did she die? Which is the dream and which is reality? It makes me sad and happy at the same time, because the realization, the remembering that she is gone never gets easier, but I'm glad to have gotten to see her, smell her, touch her again. I always wake up thinking about her hair.
She has the softest hair.
It's difficult to write, and there's so much I need to get out. I've been not writing for weeks as I think about writing, dream about writing, flex my fingers and wrists, sit down to the keyboard, and...nothing.
It will come, with quiet coaxing.
I will be patient.
|drinking coffee from my granddaddy's mug, on my granddaddy's kitchen table, remembering him and my grammy.|
|drawing stuff to stitch, maybe.|
|sewing on my mom's vintage 1930's singer.|
|quilt block #2 for an online bee|
|quilt block #1 for an online bee|
|Z raps, Mags is a blur, and Eliot observes from the bean bag.|