the dead leave wishes, first

perhaps the dust of the dead settles in the rememberance of the reality of relationship. when the dreams shake off their mythic foothold on those gilded edges of your loved ones faces and the real relationships rise up above the angelic steam.

having mourned my mother's death for four years, there has been a private unconsolable ache in the pit of my throat, and chest. and the dreams have been fantasia, wild monuments to river citiy boatways and skyriding crusades against archenemies.

and then last night, i dreamed ... clearer. a ridiculous argument. where i was trying to mix a perfect scent. trying to show off to friends that i could do it. i had a base scent, and a rare supply of it. add the right dose of coffee and amber - and i could unleash perfection. and my mother (pragmatist soul that she is) took the ration of base scent and made me - a cup of coffee.

my friends tucked their laughter into their shirt collars and i threw the ruined mix into an outdoor shrub. as violently frustrated as i always was with that woman, my that woman, - whose common sense often clashed with my hunger for decoration.

private note to post, i suppose. but what is it, i've been asking all morning, that has lightened the thumping void below my collarbone. what else, if not the simple hint of real memory. in honor of the truth.