The auteur known as Big Mama was the only woman in my dream who didn’t know my father. Besides me, there was my mother, my father’s sister and my father’s second wife. I introduced her to them, saying "She’s a great writer and a former Marine."

The four of us were sharing an apartment with an enormous communal kitchen with glassed-in storage units in the middle. I thought I put the food into the microwave to reheat. But when I looked back, I saw that my short arms hadn’t reached far enough into the counter contained inside the central glass unit. The food stood forlornly in front of the microwave.

What could this mean? 

Hmm, maybe I’m trying to fix my half-baked prose?