with the pearl earring

I dream of my grandfather. we’re at a summer house somewhere on the coast. you have to walk a day down a beach and over rocks and hills to find it. we sit in an alcove sheltered from the wind that makes mist of the sea on the horizon. the bell rings dinnertime: a stampede of cousins and their children (far too many to count) to the table. somebody says grace. it carries on for hours as I work on a deadline under the table and pretend to listen. repurposing a script for someone else. the favourite with the pearl earring catches on. she offers to help and I can’t deny her of the chance to feel useful. we have different ideas from the writer and make a mess of the story we can’t quite catch. I see the author’s grimace in my empty china and dread the wrath to come.

I plan my escape and prepare to disappear. my grandfather meets me in the kitchen washing dishes in the sink. he takes my hands and holds me like a child until I wake.