|From L to R: My dad, Phyllis, Carol, Dean and my Grandpa, seated|
It was in my grandpa's small apartment, my mind's vision of some of the places he's lived, merged into a strange concoction of his living space, as dreams tend to do.
The three of us sat around a little table, my father's large frame shoved into a small kitchen chair, his knees hitting the bottom of the table. The meal was peppered with doses of conversation and laughter. I can imagine it was every day stuff, the light that doesn't stay on in the kitchen, the Packers upcoming game, getting the oil changed in a car. Actual conversation was not a part of the dream, just the feeling of togetherness and commonness, of knowing each other so well that conversation isn't needed, just pleasant.
After the meal was done, I picked up plates and started to clean up Grandpa's kitchen. My Aunt Carol walked in, seeming to know when the meal was done so she could help and be a part of the banter. She and I cleaned the kitchen, then we all sat down and visited for a bit. She didn't stay long but popped up and said she had to go back home, and that it was nice to see me.
I awoke with tears in my eyes. Such a lunch was never possible. My grandfather never lived close to my dad and my Aunt Carol at the same time. When we got together with family, it was few and far between and it was a big deal, usually a holiday.
After the sadness passed at having visited with those long gone, I realized that they must have sent me the vision. My father loved his family dearly. He had great respect for his father and reveled in his sister's effervescent joy. Now the three of them are together, probably enjoying heavenly diversions, but the only way I could understand that they're together is by a vision of what it means for humans to commune with others -- by sharing a meal.
My grandfather died in 1996, my Aunt Carol four years ago this past March, my father this past October. I think this means they found each other and love each other as much now as they did in life.