Thursday, January 22, 2009


Last night, in my weakened state, I went home to my parents house to heal.  My brother had come home too.  He'd decided to spend the night there with me.  He and my sister were talking in the kitchen.  They were young.  The colors were muted.  My mom had long hair and was cooking dinner.  My dad wore a mustache and a stripped shirt.  While my brother and sister talked and played I stood still, arms folded on the counter, my chin resting on the tile.  I watched as my mom stirred the stew.  From nowhere the piano made a noise.  A single note.  I looked up to see if anyone else had heard it.  No on had.  Again, a single note escaped, and again, no one looked.  I walked over to the door separating the kitchen from the hallway and dining room.  I leaned against the door frame and watched.  A series of notes floated from the room and yet the piano bench remained empty.  My mom slowly walked up behind me.  She had heard.  I didn't look at her face, I didn't need to, I could tell she know who it was too.  I could feel her body tense, frozen in disbelief.  My brother, sister and dad finally took notice and wandered over to investigate.  As soon as we were all together standing in the doorway the piano let loose its music.  We stood still, silent.  We watched.  I whispered to my mom, 'I see her.  I can see her.'  In the window I saw the reflection of my grandmother.  It was a reflection of her I had never seen but one that I knew would be the grandmother my mom would be familiar with.  Younger.  Her hair darker.  Her skin more colorful.  Her body thinner and more bubbly.  She played and we watched.  I don't know how long she played but I know that we stood there in the doorway long after she had gone.  We stood with our bodies touching, staring at the empty piano.
Right then it hit me.  This is the first time my grandmother has visited me since she passed.  It's been, god, I don't even know how long, 13 years or so.  She aged and prepared us perfectly.  Not as we would have been when she passed but younger.  To the age we would have been when there were frequent sleep overs.  Pancakes.  Cookies and milk.  Trips to the zoo.  To the movies.  Television programs.  Enchiladas.  Lemon Cake and vanilla bean ice cream.  
It was nice to be a child again.  To have all my problems cured just by being in the vicinity of caring parents, family.  The comfort of knowing that no matter what there was my fathers lap to crawl onto while he sits in his recliner reading the paper.  That there would be the kitchen where I could chop vegetables for my mom while she wold reinforce who I am, where I've come from and where I'm going.  
This morning I woke up feeling the most vulnerable I've felt in a long time.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

That's a beautiful dream and you made me cry. I'm also still amazed at your writing abilities! Love, Mombo