More than anything else, I dream about my grandmother's house - which was a modern 1970's glass-walled home that overlooked the Pacific Ocean in Dana Point, CA. I stayed there for about six weeks to help Yia Yia when she was diagnosed with dementia. (More about that here) For seven days running, I've dreamt of this. Her shelves and stacks of romance books were replaced with graphic novels, and I couldn't find any bread in the cupboards. Otherwise, the house was just as I remember it.
I've been experiencing a strange loopy-time thing; sinking deeper into nostalgia, and finding myself back about ten years. The summer of 1996 was a milestone for me. It was when I lived in that house, but it was also immediately before I moved to Ireland...the first blush of independence. I guess that's why I'm stuck there, mentally. I feel the loss of Yia Yia as though it is a bright, neon scar. I feel the ocean air through her house like a rush of rain. I remember anticipating my move to Europe with distinct energy. But these memories are really so distant. And it worries me. Am I ignoring THESE moments, THIS life...why am I not here?
Distinct and imperfect
Rugged gaps between my toes
These in-betweens
