I'm packing my bags again after barely unpacking them— mostly because I'm horribly lazy when it comes to unpacking bags. I will continue to live out of my suitcase once I'm home from a trip, and use it as an unfortunate surface to heap the clothes I've peeled off myself at the end of the day. I'm heading to Portugal again, and then I'll be going Stateside for the first time in a long while. I haven't been back since my grandad died, which was two years ago this Friday. My goodness, the things that have happened since then— wonderful things, that I know he would delight in knowing.
Last night I dreamt I was on the shore surrounded by a flock of gulls. I could see myself in the distance as a little girl, playing in the sand with my grandad crouching by my side. We were looking at the green waves and laughing. I strained to hear our conversation, but the noise of the sea and the gulls deafened me, so I tried to walk closer. I suddenly realised that we were never really there; that I had imagined it all, and just as this thought came to my mind, we vanished. I found my present self standing alone in the wet sand, with white flashes of gull wings.
Photo by PeF.