But I’ve been having terrible nightmares, for years, about my cousin, Greg. They vary in actual content, but the dream is pretty much the same. He’s trying to get back here–to the land of the living–like death is just one more thing he can talk his way out of or beat, if given enough chances. Often, he doesn’t look like himself. I only recognize him because he’s hunched over and creeping in this way that makes him seem like he’s got too many joints in his legs and arms. And he’s coming closer and closer and he just wants to be let back in.
They’re terrifying, these dreams. And in my dreams, I feel like I am supposed to stop him from coming back but I just can’t bring myself to touch him.
Last night, for the first time since he died, I dreamed of him and he was happy. I had gone to visit his brother S. and Greg was there and we were all just sitting around shooting the shit and he had all these questions about the internet, about blogging, about how assholey commenters can seem (I guess he reads Pith?). And he was laughing and smiling and healthy and at ease. He looked vibrant. Like he’d settled in and found his place.
And I hope he has.
There’s a lot of shit I will tolerate when making a baby afghan that I would not tolerate in an adult afghan. Making ninety individual polka dot squares? Sure. Making the 360 individual polka dot squares that would scale this up to adult size? No. Making ninety bigger polka dots? No. Whip-stitching these tiny polka dots together? Sure. Whip-stitching an adult-sized afghan together?
Folks, let me tell you, if I make you an adult-sized afghan that is made of many little parts whip-stitched together, I probably want to fuck you. Because otherwise, I’m just crocheting the thing together and letting it have ribs. Oh, hell, let’s be honest, I’m not making you an afghan composed of many little parts.
I think I’m about to have so many black-eyed susans it may redeem this whole gardening year.
And today is my Friday. So there’s that.