I dreamed I was sorting the house into diplomatic cables

I'm standing in my mother's kitchen at some ungodly hour, but every object is labelled like a classified document — the kettle is CONFIDENTIAL, the humming refrigerator is a cable from the embassy in Bern. I keep stamping things APPROVED and nobody asks what for. When I wake up, the hum of the fridge is still in my chest, and I realise I've been filing away the grief in triplicate instead of feeling it.