within this dream i see that the walls around my grandmothers dying bed are covered with these astonishing living maps of her life. there are wandering lines of streets in the neighborhood where she played, sparkling harbors and small boats letting off cotton ball sized puffs of smoke. verdant green forests stand adjacent to spacious backyards encased in halycon days wherein white washed quarter sawn oak panels reflect jovial expressions- the milk man, the boy with wagon. i am busy being entranced, hypnotized by the beauty that was her life until she sharply demands that i slip my hands into hers that are decaying with flesh unable to stay wrapped about the bones. weakly i decline but she insists so i slide my hands into her hands that are evening gloves shaped like death and together, we rip down and shred the living map and it bleeds blue water, pungent dirt, skeletonized autumn leaves and eventually cancerous matter and then it is no more and she is calm and does not seem to mind that my hands are now stuck within hers.