Dream Visit

By Clara Blair

I walk through my grandmother's kitchen;
No cane or arthritis, but I am myself, sixty-one.
The fridge, her fridge, is empty,
Clean as new, and the light bulb works.
Same for the stove where I helped her
Cook up puddings, pie fillings, gravy.
Spotless. No trace of use. The cupboards
Are all empty, too. There is nothing
On the cream-and-green enamel table top.

Before I can explore the rest of her apartment,
I begin to wake. I sit up and see
A dim figure inside my bedroom door.
It is Grandma.
She died forty years ago.
She had never been to Texas.

Then she's gone.
And the dresser at the foot of my bed
Vanishes and reappears
Almost before I notice its absence from the wall.
My three cats, who had circled around her feet,
Are no longer in the room.
I shake myself awake
And find myself face-down on my pillow.

I am not frightened, just upset and confused.
Today, December tenth, would have been
My father's ninety-fourth birthday.

©2003 Clara Blair, December 10, 2003