I have been dreaming of my grandmother a lot lately. She comes to me healthy, hair coiffed into tight blonde curls. She is wearing her peppermint poloneck and she is always smiling, calling to me 'Bluebell'.
I ask her about her alzheimers, about what it was like living in candyfloss. We laugh about how the last time I saw her she was a dead crow in a nursing home bed. Patchwork quilt up to her chin, mouth open, one tooth-chipped. Bloated bird carcass with cup of tea cold, on the bedside table.
I have never smelt a dead person before, it is a mix of urine, metal and death.
My granddad goes missing that afternoon, we expect to find him hanging in his tool shed, he has been mummifying himself in there for years.
He turns up later in his red fiesta, wolf hat on in the middle of summer with a beard scratched into his chin, I don't know he hates me then.
The robin redbreast is still on Grandma's windowsill, it's body withering into sticks, waiting to be fed.