Dreaming

Grandmother, what are you trying to tell me?

My mama always wants to know

after you visit me, but I never remember

what we talk about in my dreams.

And we do talk, Grandmother, and you

are back in place where you should be,

as if the little resin puzzle pieces

my cousin had made from your funeral

flowers for us all came together to bring

you back healthy and whole.

That’s how it felt in the early dreams—

almost magical, a relief to see you again,

a blessing that you were well, never

leaving us again—just months after

the house you and my parents and me

shared lost you.

.

I still appreciate your visits,

like last night’s where you were sewing

or stitching or embroidering with

the aged hands that made pillowcases

for your grandchildren and hemmed

dresses and jeans for my short legs

I inherited from my mama, her from

you. I was holding something amorphous

for you until it turned into our red case

filled with needles, thimbles, thread.

We stood in the hallway, in the space

between my childhood bedroom and yours.

.

Except, I know.

.

In one dream, weeks ago, you visited

and I was overjoyed until I remembered

that I had seen you in your casket,

your mouth held not like you painted

with lipstick you never would

have chosen for yourself. I remembered

you had been embalmed and I worried

in my dream how you could possibly

be alright.

.

But don’t stop visiting, please, Grandmother.

Your bedroom is still yours, pictures of

your parents, your sisters, my mama and my aunt

and all of us grandchildren and your great-grandchildren,

your hummingbirds, your cloths.

I know you can’t come back, but

your room is here waiting for you, ready

to welcome you home if you could.

We are, too.