We Are Dreamers Dreaming

I find myself somewhat alone at the moment, while my two little ones and the dog are asleep. And I find myself thinking of my grandma. And the thing I think is... I wish she could see me now, I wish she could see me as a mother, and I wonder how we would relate now that I have joined the ranks of motherhood as opposed to being just her teenage grandaughter and then grandaughter in college. She did know me as a mother for a short six months before she left this world, but she was in the throws of alzheimers. It's interesting though, that even then, the mother in her was alive and well and full of love for her great grandson- even though it's questionable if she knew he was hers or not- she just beamed ear to ear when she saw him. 

When she left this world, I had a very small emotional reaction. I actually had a lot of guilt about it, maybe I still do. I wondered if it meant I didn't love her enough or if I didn't need her enough or that I wouldn't miss her enough. But another possibility is that for a loved one with alzheimers, they just slowly begin slipping away from you. Years of slipping. And then for me another possibility is just my own relationship with death. I truly believe that we are just passing by. We are dreaming. Our lives here are like dreams only. We will wake up to a beautiful reality. 

But the last few months have been hard. My grandfather found a new companion, and I am truly happy for him. But it was just so quick to let everything go- every physical memory of her, it seems like he just abandoned. And maybe he was ready, but I guess I wasn't. And it all happened only days after I left Kansas. I had been there for four months just twiddling my thumbs. . . and then I'm gone and can't even go say goodbye or salvage something before it's gone. So for me, that hurts. I know my aunts and my mom got the chance.. but their memories are different from mine and what has meaning to them, doesn't necessarily to me. 

But I bring this all up because I hired someone to come clean my house and cook. And while I was upstairs, she was downstairs AND USED THE CERAMIC BOWL FOR THE CROCKPOT as if it were a pot on the stove and it BROKE. It was my grandmother's. And while I have other things of hers, it was the most meaningful and most impregnated with her presence than anything else. I loved using it, knowing that I was feeding my family with the same crockpot with which she fed hers. And now it's hiding in the back of the cabinet. At some point I am going to have to face it.

I guess in a way I should be thankful it broke. Because it awoke something dormant in me. And suddenly, I feel somehow more strongly connected to her through that thin veil that seperated the "living" and the "dead".