I'm staying at the house in Spring Grove until Mum dies; expected to be about a week. I'm in the back bedroom, with the door open. My trousers keep falling down. Mum comes up the hall, snapping angrily in the husky voice she had at times during her illness - "I'm not going to look at that butt crack all week!". But when we turn our faces to each other, we become delighted. Her hair is dark brown again and her face glows healthily. I say, "You look wonderful" and she repeats the same about me.
I couldn't go back to NZ right when my mother was dying (I was full-term pregnant); I often dream I had been there. She was sometimes (uncharacteristically) irritable and angry during her sickness (understandably).
At the moment, I am getting fatter and my slouchy pants or shorts keep revealing too much.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
dream journal
(__________)
The phrase "cuttlebone query" leapt out at me from a stream of email spam babble and rattled around my head for a few years. I remember the curved white cuttlebones washed up on the beaches of my childhood summers. They suit me as metaphor for dream remnants - tiny compared to the ocean they come from; gouged and marked; hard and soft; light; gleaming wet then rasping dry.
No comments:
Post a Comment