A Dream -- Thursday 24 September

I'm standing in Grandma's kitchen, but the spoon she's using to stir her famous pie filling is a feather, dancing like equations drifting by like clouds. The laugh lines on her face morph into constellations, each one telling a story that shifts with her perspective, like mathematical clouds changing shape. I reach out to touch them, but my hands are wooden spoons too, blending with the worn one she used when I was little. As I stir the filling, it turns to numbers, dancing in time with the rhythm of her laughter. The pie crust is a perfect golden parabola, and as it bakes, it whispers tales of two-dimensional shapes and social critiques. I wake up humming "Rudy," my heart warm with mathematical joy.