Dream

I dreamt about my grandfather. He was with my grandma, and they were supposedly with my parents, who didn’t appear in my dream. They were staying in a hotel togerher apparently, and the suite they were in cost $5000 a night. It was basically two mini apartments in one unit, and for some reason it reminded me of the hotel we stayed in in Paris recently. 

I had climbed through the window into my grandparents’ suite, and my grandpa was talking to me. It seems all to have translated itself to English in my head and in my dream, but my grandpa’s manner was just as he used to be; he spoke confidingly, almost conspiratorially, and with so much appreciation it was tipping over into disbelief. He said that the room they had was already so wonderful, but on top of that they had an entire apartment. And that $5000 was a lot to pay though. He was sitting in bed…like in the last few years. It was kinda nice just listening to him again.

And then somehow in my dream I was rummaging though stuff in the suite and I picked up a children’s book with lions in it, about life and death. And on the last page I saw my mother’s handwriting, copying out the key quote of the book that said…

I can’t seem to remember what it says now. But at the moment I woke up, it was clear as day in my mind. In my dream I was gonna take a picture of it to remember her handwriting. It was something about how a person dies, and what makes it beautiful. And in my dream I was wondering if my mum might have found her own death beautiful enough, and for a moment I thought she would, but then I remembered her last days too and how it was anything but beautiful…and I guess I wanted to think more about it, hence the picture. And also to keep her handwriting with me. I don’t have much of her handwriting with me. She wrote when she was in pain, so the words still cut me. And then she wrote when she was in need, so those words are just a reminder of mortality and the ugliness of death.

Maybe the smell of lilies in my room is getting to me.