dreams of ruby rings and gypsy souls

Is this a new routine? The end of the day. The end of a routine. The start of something greater, something more beautiful. Candles lit, Taylor playing, an old sweater, glasses on. Fuzzy socks. Lemon water. Writing to you. Hiding from the polar vortex.

I wanted to write a little letter, a little note to you, and to the universe.

Are there any dream interpreters out there?

I’ll tell you why.

I rarely dream about my grandfather. He passed away when I was 17, and I can only think of two other times where he came to me in a dream. He was very stoic. Calm, but with that furrowed brow, cigarette behind his ear, and Italian temper. My best memories from childhood were always with him and with my Nana, and those Italian summers in suburban Toronto, his tomato garden being the focal point of July and August.

Two springs ago, I wrote a poem about the second time he came to me in a dream:

I dreamt about my mother and grandfather the other night, in what probably was a welcomed fever dream.

She was so, so happy. She took my arm and said, “But Emily, look at all of the things that we can still do!”

My grandfather showed me a box of ruby rings.

“These aren’t for me, are they?”

“One day, one will be.”

I wake up and wipe a few tears away from my eyes. They aren’t tears of longing, but rather, tears of remembering. Remembering a past self, a past figure, and a past life.

Have you ever thought about what you wanted it to feel like when you fell in love?

Those boys at the bar taught me a lot about myself last summer, last fall, and last winter.

And was any of it really love? I don’t know about that, but it sure was fun.

My hands are stacked with ruby rings and she tells me she admires my gypsy soul.

What’s that quote again? Love is short, but forgetting is so long.

But look at all of the things we still can do.

Till we meet again.

Emily

I haven’t thought about that poem, that short essay, whatever you would classify the above as, in a very long time.

A few nights ago, I had a dream my Mom was zipping me up in a dress. And it was eerily similar to the dress that Taylor wears when she performs Maroon. Except someone had sewn tiny rubies all over it. In fact, it might have been a dress that was entirely made out of rubies - glistening and sparkling when the light hit. My hair was straight, my Mom was smoothing it down. And as I walked out of the bathroom where my Mom had been zipping me up, my Nonno was sitting at the kitchen table, in the house they lived in growing up. Wearing his signature white undershirt, an espresso sitting in front of him. In the house where I spent all of those summers.

He was smiling and cheering. “Yay Emily!” My Mom stood in the doorway, with that all-knowing smile on her face. As if she was saying, “Of course. Of course that’s my daughter.”

And I wake with your memory over me.

God. I love that song. And now I wonder what all of this symbolism means.

Maroon, rubies, and ruby rings. Remembering. Happiness. Memories. Love.

Love is short, but forgetting is so long.

Till we meet again.

Emily