I had a dream about my grandfather last night — my mother’s father. It was one of those “real” dreams, where I had a conversation with him. I was at his house. It was like it was really happening. The only strange thing is that he’s been dead for more than 30 years.
I used to love to visit my mother’s parents. It’s because I was the oldest grandchild, and my grandmother’s favorite. We slept in the attic. Their house smelled like tea. And I thought I was a pretty grown up kid when they would let me drink tea with milk and sugar (they were from Ireland) from their Belleek teacups. We’d have a little buttered toast, too.
I don’t even have a photo of my grandfather. But in my dream, I could picture him as if he was right there. He was wearing what he wore back then: A pressed white shirt and a tie, even when the summertime weather was stifling in Cleveland, Ohio. And the thing that really iced it for me in my dream was the recollection of how much my grandfather used to cry when we left. He was the only grown man I knew who would cry and not be ashamed of it. As we were leaving he would hug each of us kids to him tightly, then hold our hand. And when he left go there would be a brand new sliver dollar in there. (To those of you from families of immigrants, you know that was a big deal, especially back then.)
I dunno, maybe it’s just getting older. I’ve had dreams about my dad lately, too. He would have been 84 years old tomorrow, but he’s been gone for 20 years. People go; good memories stay. I like that.
