Woke up sad this morning. Sad, and much too early.
I’d had a dream about my grandmother, who I lost last year. The dream was really quite vivid, which doesn’t usually happen to me; usually, as soon as I wake up, whatever dream I’d been having shatters, dissipates. Instead, I watched our last moments together play out in perfect, painful detail…but. In the dream, I didn’t leave her bedside, I didn’t head home overnight to get a few more days’ of clothes, and I was able to hold her hand during her last few hours. I remember feeling glad for it. Glad I’d stayed.
That’s when I woke up, with a start. None of those things actually happened, of course; my mom had called me early the next morning, telling me the news while I stood very still in my dining room back home, a few hours before we’d planned to drive back north.
It took me a few minutes to properly figure out where I was, to sift through the bits I’d dreamed, and what actually happened. As the sun came slowly up, I reacquainted myself with more news of a country that’s crumbling in slow motion. I caught myself thinking, “I’m glad she didn’t have to see any of this,” a thought that never ceases to make me sad.
I find myself thinking that most days, seems like.
After a few minutes, I threw my legs over the side of the bed. I sat there for a few minutes, took a deep breath, and whispered a few words under my breath—words that aren’t meant for me, but words that mean a lot to me. I got up quietly, and started my day.
I still miss her.