Maybe it wasn’t the froot loops, is what I was told. “No, no. You idiot. You don’t understand. It was a dream.”
“Why are you so upset?”
“She died. And I couldn’t help her.”
“But she was a dream. She isn’t real.”
But the tears were real, as was the grief, as was the loss. I would know; upon waking i tried to hang on to every sliver of my dream self, a man with a hat, weeping over a desk.
When I realized I wasn’t a man, and that I didn’t own any kind of hat I stopped crying, but the aftertaste of the dream remained, images of a woman on the floor asleep in her own blood. Salt at the edge of the tongue, thickly sour at the back of the mouth. Like a saltwater cave, hollow and dripping lime. The taste of despair?
Half a blue loop bled into the white of the milk and i tried drowning it with my spoon. The blue must have blended with the milk, who knows if the milk wasn’t white anymore but of a bluish tinge, but I couldn’t see the difference yet. If she wasn’t real then why have I felt so much, too much?
I couldn’t see the difference yet.
Katrina Del Rosario