under the blanket

One side effect of insomnia is that when you finally fall into an exhausted sleep, you waste those precious hours in restless dreams and wake up unrefreshed.

In the early hours of dawn, I dreamt of both my dead grandmothers, one I called Ah Por and the other I called Ma Ma. They kept switching identities as I tried to talk to them, but not in a disturbing, horror movie sort of way. It felt rather comforting, and I had some semblance of control over my actions, yet I couldn't make myself wake up even though I knew I had over-slept. It was as if I was enveloped in thick cotton wool and I got all tired out from struggling against it.

I think it was the night after my Ma Ma died that I dreamt of a big black moth, which is an omen of death [especially to me with my deep-seated phobia of moths, butterflies and other fluttery things]. My sis told me later that there was indeed a moth on her coffin.

The last time I dreamt of Ah Por, I can remember it so vividly that I am convinced it was more than just a dream. We were standing at a dimly-lit lift landing, and she was wearing her flowery printed samfoo with baggy black pants, and her grey hair was immaculately combed as usual. I was so happy to see her that I touched her, and I remember the tactile feel of her face, still smooth and warm. Then I asked, with every intention of visiting her: "Where are you staying now?"

And this is the part which freaked my mother out while, at the same time, sent her scurrying to the neighbourhood 4D outlet: My Ah Por replied, "07-01."

[We didn't strike 4D, in case anyone was wondering.]