I Had the Strangest Dream

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Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

I was just twenty-seven when my mother died, quite unexpectedly. I felt such tremendous grief weighing on my chest, for months, making it difficult to breathe. In navigating this dark, new terrain, I grew increasingly close to my sister. Years later, hanging out on her King-size bed, vaguely listening to House Hunters International on a warm September evening, I remarked, “you know, a few months after Mom died, I had the strangest dream:

We were sitting in the living room, which Mom had painted that odd shade of pale turquoise that I could not fathom, then, and which I have painted at least one room in every house I’ve lived in, since. As we’re sorting through the piles of knickknacks, afghans, lamps, and furniture, the front door bursts open with a rush of winter, and in walks Mom.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long. I’ve not used to such a crowd at the Shop n’ Save…My goodness, why are you all sitting around looking so sad?” she asks us.

“But Mom,” I say, “we thought you were dead. You’ve been gone for months now…”

“Don’t be silly. I was just out buying groceries,” she says, shaking her head as she sets the loaded, brown-paper bags on the kitchen counter.

…And everything returns to normal. We are a happy family, again, and everyone is here where they are…