I live for novelty cooking accessories
Dream on the day of Irving’s funeral:
There’s a room full of people, maybe a party, I don’t like how they’re looking at me. I go into a den. The room is unfamiliar, low in the house, warm and red and square. There is a sofa facing directly to a large television screen. On the sofa is Grandpa, either sleeping or dead or somewhere inbetween. I sit beside him and turn on the tv. Flipping channels, I eventually find something starring Benedict Cumberbatch. It’s a comedy, and he’s singing. My Grandpa stirs and blinks blearily awake, trying to listen. I realize he’s “waking up” but that this is rare, so I jump up and scramble for my camera on the coffee table in front of us. He is wrapped in blankets, like a child, and leans into me as he speaks.
"Who is that?"
"You like him, Saman-ta?"
"Yes, do you?"
"There used to be things like this. Now this is what I like."
I’m recording this conversation in order to keep it for when he is dead again. He leans against me heavy and warm. My phone alarm goes off.