And I guess that’s why I keep trying to scrape things, pieces of myself, and my life, and what I used to have, together off the floor, because I miss that. I miss her so much. I miss having a life that might somehow mean something.
Actually, there was nothing important about the dream, except that I dreamed about my brother, in a house I couldn’t recognize in my sleep, except that now I recognize it as our old house, where we grew up.
The rug was a lighter, beige color, and new. The bathroom fixtures had been replaced with something generic and white. I wonder if that is how it looks now. I hope whoever bought it falls down the stairs and dies.