Today I came across the word “frangipani” and was reminded of a dream I had a few years back.
I was wandering the greenbelts of my hometown as filtered through my subconscious, meaning that over the years they’ve swollen to an endless labyrinth completely divorced from real life, as tends to happen. I saw flowers begin to show up along the side of the path and stumbled out of a patch of woods into your average suburban cul-de-sac, where a man was standing by his house, staring holes through me.
He gestured to one of the flowers. “Tuberose.”
Then another. “Frangipani.”
Behind him, I saw his house rear up like some hungry beast. The second story was a greenhouse, and it was full to bursting with butterflies of every color, dancing and dashing themselves against the walls.
“Would you like to come upstairs and see?”
I said no.
And there’s no way back there.