The dream I had last night has been reoccurring since long before the plague. I am in school, sometimes college, sometimes high school, and I do not have my schedule. I do not know where I am supposed to be, or when I am supposed to be there. And I decide to fake it. I urgently pass through hallways looking for something or someone familiar. There are vague visual memories from the Girls’ Latin School building in the 70s–big, spread out, not easily navigated without a map or a friend. In my dream I have neither. There are a lot of stairways, some grand, some cramped and narrow. I never find my way before I wake up. I never make it to class.
When I was solidly awake last night at 1AM, the room was bright from the moon, and I kept trying to fit myself into the moon’s glow. Like a cat. Or someone in desperate need of light.
It’s the moments we have to hang on to, right? Like the 5 awesome rummikub games vs. the 5 pounds gained from alcohol consumption. Like the episodes of Schitt’s Creek vs. the shit show from the White House. Like the blankets and wraps we are knitting vs. the knots in our stomachs and shoulders.
I made a carrot cake today from a cookbook that my aunt gave me a hundred years ago. It was a fundraising cookbook. She is not from Concord. Nor am I. Yet, I believe this cookbook may have been what started my love of cooking. She gave it to me when I was young, and I felt like such an adult receiving it. So many recipes are my go-tos, like the quiche. My other favorite is a spread made from liverwurst. I made that one as an appetizer for so many family holidays. Did we celebrate Easter together? I don’t remember.
I wonder why I so desperately want to be on a boat in Maine. Isn’t that just more of the same?
You know the expression you cannot pour from an empty cup. Yah, that one.
My hair does not appear to be coming in gray. Dark af but not gray. So…good?
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