Last night I had a dream in the past. Sort of. In a past apartment, with my mom. We were in a throw-down screaming match, as we would do from time to time. Usually after a particularly long holiday weekend or if she felt like I was calling her stupid for forgetting my Netflix password for the 327th time. I was frustrated as only she could get me: so angry that I wanted to spit, hit things, pull my hair out. I was throwing clothes, stomping by.

Then, as can happen in dreams, time seemed to shift ever so slightly. I realize that the reason I was so inexplicably angry wasn’t whatever she was saying. It was the fact that somehow I knew that even though she was “here,” one day she wouldn’t be. I would never be able to fight with her like this again. My dream-self puts my hands on each side of the sink and begins to cry hearty, heaving sobs into it. My mom quietly, almost as if she was already a ghost (or is she?), comes behind me and rubs my back. …

My life lately has been ruled by dates. Not dates as in dinner and drinks, while there has been a little of that, but dates as in: 368 days ago was the last time I would ever speak to my mom.

Dates such as seven months ago, when I left every stable piece of my life aside from a suitcase to Japan, because eight months ago my boyfriend had dumped me and moved out of our apartment. …


I swear I’m more excited than I sound.

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