. . .

Two days ago I had another strange dream. I was living in an orphanage with my mother. She looked just like my real mother, but in this case she was a little person and my adoptive mother. All the other kids were also little people, but I was my regular size. For some reason, everyone was dressed in brilliant shades of indigo and cerulean. The kids were all singing an unfamiliar song in a language I couldn't understand, and there were subtitles in my dream which I couldn't read. My mother was in a rocking chair, holding me in her lap. I was sobbing and telling her how much I loved her and how grateful I was that she had adopted me. I think it's a guilt dream. My brother and I keep having to postpone visiting our mother, and it's been a while since I've seen her. Well technically she visited me in June, but I was knocked the fuck out from leg surgery and so loopy that I don't remember any of it. We've been talking a lot more recently, which pleases me. I always worry that I won't have anything to say or report to her, but I've found a fool-proof topic: cooking. I have her to thank for my interest in cooking, and I've realized there's always bonding to be done over variations on hollandaise sauce.