I dreamt about my grandmother. She died 12 years ago and I woke up in tears. I dreamt about her. I dreamt about the old woman I’d met in a Bristol hostel who didn’t want me to go out in the cold. She served me a dinner of three tomatoes, two toasts, and cheese. I thought about the old man who always had rock candies in his pocket for me. I dreamt about the chopped mulberry tree. I cried for the stray dog I used to call John and leave bread out for. One day he disappeared. I dreamt about my parents’ friend who died of a heart attack, with whom I’d shared a plate of roasted chicken just a few months before while singing loudly.
I still remember the time before the pandemic. I will remember the time after. I am alone, my love, I am alone in the corner weeping for the ones no one is weeping for anymore.
Why does my heart turn bitter like Campari?
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