Last night my dreams were made of broken kinship. I was a man who had passed on but was yet to catch up with the news. I lingered around those for whom my passing was old news, yesterday’s headlines, tomorrow’s chip paper. Between their acceptance that I was gone and my stubborn refusal to realise this was so, we stumbled along in some kind of unanimity. Yet it wasn’t quite like that. I knew there was something horribly wrong, some unbridgeable divide between us. It was as if loss was what was keeping us together, but none of us were able to accept it. To try to end this thing I would finally have to get the news. For them that meant re-living news that was old. When that time came, the combination of my delayed arrival at and their reencounter with the news of my passing would be acted out as some kind of degraded reunion. We would know we had all been there before. Tears enough to drown in. Stomach empty. Choked moan. But we hadn’t shaken it all off the last time. Hadn’t let it all out. And we knew it might not even be enough this time around. We would have to do it all over again. In the mean time we could go on as we were, beating loss at its own game.