Moon activity always plays havoc with my dream life. They are made more vivid, more memorable and often more perplexing. I dreamt of having a conversation with Keir Stamer where I asked him, not once but twice, where he came from. Then I asked him if he were pacing himself. I clearly didn’t interest him. I dreamt of DH too, asking him questions I’d never ask in this reality.
She replies with a different account, or should I say an addendum to what I wrote. She is the self-appointed repository of our family’s stories. I don’t mind. Though I understand, or I ought to say suspect that we were each told different things. The telling and the remembering of such occasions are subjective. There is no absolute about such things, however much we’d like to think there was. We choose our corners. I lean towards hers, always, for that is where my compassion lies. All our stories can co-exist. It is all right. Everything is. It is.
