Last night, I dreamt of my father again. I don’t remember most of it. He spoke to me (it’s been so long since we had a conversation) but what was said is a frustrating blur of hazy memory. It didn’t help that I was woken abruptly by the maid calling to tell me she was standing outside my door. I tried to go back to sleep, but the dream – once interrupted – never returned. But that’s what most things in life are all about, I find. Once they go, they never return.
This morning, when I got to work, out-of-the-blue the gardener walked in with a handful of motia flowers, and put them on my desk with a smile. And as I closed my eyes and breathed in their familiar fragrance I could almost feel my heart breaking (a little more) on the inside.