entelein | attic room, sometime dream

Like a ghost, a ring of sweating glass on old finished wood, this dream won't leave me. She seems gone now, even though she's right here, precipitation into the corners of my life, gentle rain falling unbidden, pools and reminders of weather, of disturbances in the air.

Her face was so passive in this dream, until she admitted that she missed me, and for a bit I felt hope. In the dream, she told me Why and Wherefore, and that little tiny thread that was wrapped around my finger unraveled and my chest loosened and sweet breath was inhaled. I awoke and knew it was all just my brain, playing with that brand of hope, and that sort of remembrance, but I am not sure why. Candied blue sparkling eye and wrinkled forehead. Cracked plain plaster walls and drafty windows, expanses of weathered floorboards. A house that had been well-traveled, well-loved, photogenic and wise, hearing the arguments and susurrations of secrets and lamentations.

Powder blue light of late stark winter afternoon. This was February light, this was taste of dust, this my little piece of dream wisdom. This may never come to pass. The spare room on the top floor an enclave against loneliness. Her arms were crossed in much of the dream. That much seems consistent with now. Lips pursed in a stern manner. She will make a mother of all mothers, her hands will know great strength, her voice tremulous, warm, terrifying in its love.

I'd like to think that at the same time, I was also being thought of, kindly.