I had a dream that Constance was older and she had a terrible haircut. Someone had shaved the sides and back of her hair so that there was this long rectangle of long black curly hair. I think it was inspired by a conversation I’d had about how children have a tendency to get their hands on scissors and give themselves terrible haircuts. The haircuts are always terrible and parents are always irritated. It is an inevitable cycle.
I long for my dreams about Constance because it is the only time I get to spend with her. However, there’s this incredible pain in them because they happen in a warped alternate universe. They don’t make sense and they always end with the bashing realism that I’m now awake and Constance is still dead. There aren’t words to express the whiplash of waking to that.