the exploding phones

in my dream I walk with my brother through the rain in the dark. at some point we help an elderly man of distant relation up cobblestone stairs. in his corner of the crumbling castle where we’re staying I walk him to his wheelchair. he needs to see the doctor and I take him, pushing up further flights of stairs, in and out of rain pouring through the holes in the ceiling. by time we reach the doctor the man is better and I’ve lost my brother. I scale empty hallways without candles, lit only by glints of moonlight and their shadows pouring through the leaking gaps in the roof. I find him collapsed at the foot of a couch. overcome with panic, I haul him over my shoulders and retrace my steps to the doctor’s office. he is heavy and choking but I am determined and manage up the stairs, despite my fragile frame. once I lay him on the bed, the doctor tells me we’ve lost him. I remember forgetting how to speak and not wanting to leave the room.

when I wake my body is aching and I feel the build-up of tears behind my eyes. I realise I can never see a world in which I can’t see my brother anymore. I run past the scene of the crash from a couple of mornings ago; the uprooted fence hanging precariously over the courtyard it was placed to protect. a trail of black oil tarnishes the grass and the pavement over which the van had lost its bearings. I think about the lady and wonder if she slept okay.

at the rally they talk about what the news had to say about the exploding phones that injured thousands. a dystopian act of terrorism lauded as tactical and clever by media funded with the same taxes fuelling the ongoing massacre of children. I think about my dream and can’t forgive myself for my complicity in the same nightmare for tens of thousands of families I will never know. we march the streets and chant about resistance and justice for the martyrs. when it’s over we fold the flag and leave as we arrived: strangers connected by our shared concern for what this means about humanity and the path we’re slipping down.

I buy ingredients for a recipe I can’t remember. I think about a surprise I wish I could forget.