The hill stretches up before me. A long serpent road slips through it, delightfully decorated in Spring. To my left, the road disappears, and the hill morphs, expanding quickly toward me. It beckons me with one promise: pomegranates.

But these aren’t just any pomegranates. They’re huge, ripe and pulsating with possibility. Suddenly, they burst. One by one, then all at once. Their vibrant contents splatter against the purity of my long white dress and make a messy masterpiece out of me.

But it’s not done. The hill calls me further and asks me to lay my body down between the neat clusters of daffodils. In return, I asked to be seen. And seen because I couldn’t bare the thought of time washing me pristine. A collection of drama, comedy and tragedy gone untold. A purpose gone unserved.

Persephone swarmed the atmosphere of my dream, unseen, unheard, but deeply felt. The Greek Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Underworld. Kore was her birth name, meaning ‘maiden’. The same name my mum held like a scale in her hand, before it tipped toward Ailsa.

I was so close to being Kore; so close to meeting persephone. She ate the seeds of the pomegranate and became immortalised, forever suspended between two worlds. You asked for an extraordinary life, she whispered, you asked for pomegranates.

I woke from the dream on the first day of Spring, suspended between two worlds; two beings, and what pain it brought forth. What truths it revealed and isn’t it true? The truth sets us free. Still, I can hardly decipher between wake and dream. And the ordinary views, the same golden rows of brick I’ve been looking at since August, feel new and unfamiliar. The same neighbours, known by names, have become fresh faces.

To move between the ordinary duties of home; the menial and mundane, have now become oddities. The dead roses on the coffee table exude a new shade of death. And I look at the world through the window, feeling, for the first time, the true separation of glass, and I am those ethereal shades; those fleeting flickering reflections that move between its meticulous designs.

I’m somewhere between drawing the curtains and running barefoot into the sunset; to die a new death; to trust the promise of a dwindling day, even when it utters nothing but ‘goodbyes’.

And with the ‘goodbyes’ of a passing day, still, there’s an untamed, radical urge to lay myself flat out by the river’s edge, to embrace it, and let the silence and stillness of a Spring night purge me. To understand that death is exactly what I come alive for. To know that the only fear I have of dying is not in its doing, but in its resistance to being done.

They say there’s a moment of profound peace and acceptance before you die, and why, on this ordinary evening, am I within its extraordinary reach. With little resistance, too. All I can say is the world appears distorted to me and I’m drowning in visions of a white dress, stained with the remnants of bursting pomegranates. All I know is that I’m nauseous and my body is purging, refusing and rejecting.

I remember this the last time I died; the way I couldn’t eat. The seeming collapse into the visceral mania. The way the ordinary pulsated and the still began to dance. The way truth tainted everything I set my eyes upon and it mocked the world I’d seen before. Life stood before me: unchanged, unfiltered and inherently meaningless; stripped of the old beliefs and rigidness I had assigned it in my fear. Now, life asks: this time, are you going grey or are you going to choose technicolour?

It tells me we could be dancing partners if I let it and for every fumble, it promises to catch me. Not always gracefully, but that’s what you asked for when you asked for pomegranates. For the extraordinary life, Ailsa. For stories to tell. To be filthy rich with experience and share it generously. You asked to be a rich woman and it’s messy, compassionate work.

It’s vomiting up the old. Banging angry fists with soil covered hands, as you allow frustration to move through you; as you plant pomegranates. As you give voice to silent rages and undisturbed wars that you almost forgot were being waged. You’re reminded: you’re suspended between two worlds.

Your tummy may not always like you and the days will feel just that little bit too long. And music won’t sound as sweet and you’ll get bored with your haircut and the same knitted cardigan you’ve been wearing since September.

And your eyes will fall on pretty girls whose faces don’t quite crease the same as yours and you’ll wonder why your smile, your years of laughter, had to leave scars. But you remember that you never wanted time to wash you pristine. You wanted to be seen. And told as the collection of drama, comedy and tragedy that you are. You asked for pomegranates.

The dust will build upon your shelf where your favourite books now lay untouched. You’ll wonder why all your coffees taste the same, just without the buzz. No long sleep will ever feel enough. And you’ll swap around your pillows. Too hot, too cold. And you’ll blame it on the mattress.

And the Christmas weight that crept up on you will cling to last year’s clothes. You’ll think about the gateaux and the extra slice of cheese. You’ll ask yourself if you could’ve done better. Could’ve chose wiser. And you’re running out of vitamins, while plastics pile high.

But still, you’ll get the dishes done and feed the birds before you feed yourself. You’ll open and close the fridge door on the week old leftovers and you’ll ignore the stove. And somedays, you’ll wonder if the pomegranates will ever arrive.

You’ll cry for no good reason and debate a doctor’s visit. But you don’t want to waste anyone’s time except your own. And you’ll phone whoever listens, whoever says here she goes again. Because they remember the last time you died and how pomegranates grew.

The days seem back to front and your feet feel upside down. You’ll wonder if you’re the only one who’s died a million deaths. Then you’ll tell people you’re a scorpio and suddenly, it all makes sense. This is what Persephone felt like, as she moved between two worlds. This is the extraordinary death that comes with the extraordinary life. It comes with pomegranates.

And between two worlds, I spend some days in motion. Then others, I press my face against the glass. I watch migrating geese fly over the Clyde from my bedroom window, jealous of where they’re going. Jealous that they get to go at all.

And between two worlds, I’ve felt quite foolish, forgetting manners in my daze. Not finishing Arabic greetings, and too many hellos and missed goodbyes. And I nod along in conversations that I don’t understand. I pick up on phrases and fall over others.

Between two worlds, I am so full of love and love makes a fool out of me. But I know as I die, I’ll be okay with that. I do no harm and disturb no peace. And I haven’t really thought much about the pomegranates. Persephone never breaks her promise.

So between two worlds, I do just one thing different and let go. I switch to oat milk. Or swap coffee for tea. Or buy a new book. A new jacket. A new seed. And today: I have new eyes, and I don’t know what that means. I was promised pomegranates and perhaps this is the price.