I saw my grandpa in a dream last night.

I had a dream about my grandpa last night. In my dream, unlike real life, we knew his life was coming to an end long before it did. In real life, we got the call to come see him, one last time, mere hours before his eyes closed forever. I’d be a liar if I said that I didn’t see it coming. He was a shadow of a man after my grandma passed. I can’t say I blame him. But still - does anyone ever expect to get that call?

In my dream, I got to be at my grandparents house one last time. It’s not surprising that I’d end up there. It was, in fact, the one consistent home I knew. It’s almost a storybook house in my memories now. Something to hold in my hands, each room popping out of the pages, mom’s voice in my ear reading every word. I guess my poems are like those pop-up fairytale books I loved as a girl. When I write them, I get to live inside that Land Far, Far Away for just a little while. I get to walk around inside of my own mind.

In my head, that brick house at the end of Plum St. is still where I opened Christmas presents every year with the kind of joy in my eyes that only little girls have. It’s where I got the panda pillow that I still have almost twenty years later, the one I screamed into after my first heartbreak, and cuddled as I read all of my favorite books. It’s where I slept as a child, nestled in bed next to my grandma, listening to the old, crackling radio as I drifted off. It’s where I loved to explore the seemingly endless basement packed with relics from my mother’s childhood. An old classroom desk with her school papers still inside; her dolls and dress-up gowns in piles not touched since she unknowingly put them down for the last time. The upstairs hallway of family photos felt like exploring the catacombs of our family history, and I suppose that in many ways they were. I still don’t think I know enough. Does anyone ever know enough?

Last night, in the deepest part of my unconscious imagination, I saw my grandpa in a wheelchair. (He never got old enough to need one. That feels kind of unfair.) My mom and I tried to take him out on one last excursion, and give him the joy we wanted him to have. I ruined the day with my crying. He tried to be brave for us all. I wonder if that’s what much of love is about - being brave for others even when you can’t do it for yourself. I know my grandpa must’ve done it for my grandma when the cancer was found. I wonder who was doing it for him in those last few minutes. I hope he knew no fear. I wish I had the chance to be brave for him.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll see all of my grandparents in my dreams again. I’d like to see Grandma Angie on her childhood horse, down in Missouri, wild blonde hair in the wind. I want to see Grandpa Shaw at Aunt Pat’s house, a quiet force amongst the crowd of family. I’d give anything to sit on the couch with Grandma Pompa again, her soft ring-adorned hands holding mine. And I’d love to have my Grandpa Pompa there too, sitting in that ancient recliner of his, swearing he’s not sleeping (don’t turn wrestling off!), but watching him fall asleep anyways. I wish he was only asleep.

Painting: 9 of Swords by Vanessa Mazda