In My Grandmother's House

     One night I dreamed I was in my Grandmother's house. I was alone in her house. I didn't know where my Grandmother could have gone, but I knew not to go looking for her. I walked through the house very slowly. Here were all her things. Items she had purchased or been given as gifts from various family members. Souvenirs of her life she had collected and put on display. My hand caressed her furniture as I passed each piece. Memory was absorbing all of this. If I were an artist, even today I could sketch her rooms and their contents.

     All of the rooms were sunlit. Strong breezes began to billow her curtains, the valances of which as a child I had often watched her starch and iron. The house became suddenly cold so I walked over to a window to close it. When the window was closed, I woke. I recalled the dream in vivid detail and knew in my heart I would never be in her house again. The phone rang.

     My mother, the daughter of the Grandmother whose house I had visited in my dream, was calling to tell me my Grandmother had just died. I told her I already knew. I had just said good-bye to her house.