Dreams and memories

I was doing nothing when she burst through the door. Not exactly welcome, but not unwelcome. She jumped back into old routines immediately, including the one where she was upset and I would calm her.

Which is what she was asking for.

It was a poem I had written that had upset her. I couldn't remember all the lines but had the vague familiarity I have with all of my pieces, I knew when it was written and who it was written about, and my task would be to explain it.

She was upset, angry and scared. Because I couldn't remember the words, I wasn't quite sure what she wanted addressed. It happens often that some line I've said is mistaken for something else, I was wondering if I had feigned being suicidal, or if I had described her in some unkind way. 

She kept saying the title, as if that would remind me of its content, but I wasn't quite sure. I offered to go look it up, to break it down. 

I invited her into my whirlwind of a room. It wasn't just messy, it was living in chaos, but this too felt easily 

explained besides she'd seen me in worse, we lived this way for a time.

I looked up the first few lines of the piiem and felt clear that this was all a misunderstanding. I was trying to help her see,but she was erratic and then ran to the door.

At the door was her friend, a large light skinned black man who clearly had played football. He was acting as her protector but he wasn't aggressive, just concerned. We talked and I offered to go get him a copy of the poem so he could see the misunderstanding. He said he'd like that. I was explaining to him on the way that it had been a break up porn, overly dramatic and written from a place of wounds. He seemed to understand that. 

While it was printing I scanned the lines again and roughly at the same time all three of us came to the conclusion that this wasn't the right  piece.

He said demonetizing about it being 17-18 pages long. She was shouting in the background, but painfully like grieving cries. And I swallowed hard

I woke up to heavy rain or even hail on the cabin roof, along with lightning strikes . There weren't any other sounds and almost nothing was visible.

I couldn't tenement the name of the poem though it had sounded so familiar in the dream. I had been reciting the familiar lines but hadn't remembered the whole thing. 

In my fear, I wondered if this was the moment I died, and whether the poem was all the things I'd leave behind. Whether she was upset because so much of it would seem negative in comparison to the positive, and I wouldn't be able to explain.

Or if the poem was some longer collection titled after that poem. I've often considered writing a poetry book, and assumed that an entire section could be poems about her. 

A third thought for consideration was that she was in trouble. We haven't talked in forever, I've basically written her off and for the worst reason. I wondered if I was supposed to make contact, to reach out and check in. 

But with who? In my dreams she doesn't always represent herself. I've had numerous dreams about other people where she stood in as the symbol. There area at least two people in particular I could think of. 

And so I tried to get back to sleep, thinking about the various things, wondering what had lead my brain to them. She's been showing up a lot lately in my dreams, is that because I've basically returned to a college age?  Is it because I looked at pictures last night from the last 5 or so years and considered the people I've loved? Is it because as has happened before in being subcojnsciously signaled of something happening? Is it because I'm worried about or jealous of  friends, in their relationships with big tall protector type men who may want the best for them or may be isolating them from me. 

There is no internet access here so I was looking at pictures and reading old stories. The last 5 years were amazing and also super disheartening. 

My life seemed on the rise, on track, etc.

There were events and shifts that made it feel less exciting and more like growing through the motions, but I enjoyed the people I was seeing to the extent that I could. 

I think I was grieving far more than I wanted to admit and then I ran away. 

In my pictures I also looked at videos and photos from my first trip to Guatemala. This time I became ready eyed, not for that abandoned mishap of a trip, but because I lived there. Missed it. Missed the people and the place. 

I will probably never live there again, probably never get to show anyone around pointing out the daily sights that now seem so meaningful but at the time became so ordinary. I won't have breakfast at Danny's or San Martin with Courtney. I won't eat at the sushi place with Sara and Anna. I won't see movies with Keva. 

I never properly grieved.  I never grieved the changes in my life, always gritting my with and moving forward. 

I miss all the people I've loved, I miss the loving part of our relationships, and now if I met up, we wouldn't fall into old routines because that was a different age, and everything is different now.