I dream of things I’ve forgotten.
I have a house in my head, the path is forgotten to me, but when I remember it I always find myself within its walls. There is my woven chair from when I was little, over it hangs my birthday crown. There is the song I forgot I found in the drunk state of an after party, sitting on his lap, head bent back and memorizing the lyrics for when I woke. There is my silver dress, I put it on and run my hands over the stiff fabric.
In the kitchen I hear my grandmother make a fuss, something isn’t done and something is too warm. I sit on the bed and watch her walk around, thinking there was something. Something I’ve forgotten.
After a while she looks at me and expectantly says “well?”
My throat becomes sore, like I need to swallow air instead of breathing it. I take her hands between mine and count her rings, run my thumb over the blue stone and with a whisper I tell her she’s dead.
She swats me away with a smile and says that of course she knows that, if that would fix the back pain she’s having that would be something and she laughs of her own joke and goes back to kneading the bread rolls.
I have a house in my head, where I discover things I’ve forgotten and sometimes it plays tricks on me, making me believe they’ve come back to me. My palms are itchy from the silvery fabric and I notice I’m crying. The house is gone and I wake, it’s like breaking the surface of a still water. Awake, and not awake, the smell of bread rolls follows me throughout the morning.