It must look as though I’ve been partaking of a lot of Absinthe lately. Not quite. But I will tell you of my latest dream.

I was sitting in my grandfather’s house, at the table we would play cards with. He and I were sitting with another gentleman, who didn’t appear to be anyone I knew. As we shuffled cards and smoked, we took breaks to go and shoot heroin in the bathroom. My grandfather flicked my arms with his giant, coarse fingers, trying to get my veins engorged. The third gentleman wished to share our needle, but I insisted on only sharing with granddad.

I remember feeling guilty but elated. I put a few dollars into my veins, just a smidge, and then continued smoking and laughing. I kept turning around, expecting my grandmother and mother to come in and start yelling at us. But every time I turned to granddad, I just felt like smiling again. His face was very clear in my dreams, its a face I can never forget, even years after his death, and with very few photographs of him. Looking at him always made me smile. One of the only men in my life who brought me a huge sense of calm. The rest of them ran/run the gamut from inducing laughter to inducing pain.

For clarification, I have never used drugs of this sort. What’s more interesting about this dream, to me, is the feelings of guilt and nervousness I’d hold until I turned back to the table to play cards with him.

I do miss him terribly, but they all have to go. Who do you miss?

Druid

What sleeps under beds of roses? Snails, loved ones, perhaps tiny little druids…

When I was a small girl my grandfather grew rose bushes. Not very impressive to most people reading this I am sure, but the climate and condition under which they grew made them quite impressive. Nutrient leached sandy soils on a beach front property, salt air, and a warm temperature: sometimes up to 40 degrees celcius in the summer. Not ideal for growing roses, and the bushes never grew higher than a metre.

My grandfather took pride in cultivating these roses against the odds. And when one was in full bloom, before the time of its expiry, he would pluck it from the bush, lift the petals off and eat them individually. I used to partake of this little ceremony sometimes. Roses are quite bitter and interesting to the taste, and given my grandfather’s preference for sweet foods such as tropical fruits that he also grew, I can’t imagine he ate them because he enjoyed the taste.

It does then make me wonder… why did he eat them?