Last night I dreamed my grandmother was still alive in some creepy cloister-hospital mashup featuring gothic architecture.
As my mom nonchalantly informed me, rather than being dead she had just been ill, and alone in this crazy weird place for the last 12 years — hurrah!
I felt really guilty, and with the knot in my stomach growing -what would she think to see me? would she forgive me for not visiting until now? - I pondered over what I should take on my visit.
I imagined her wasting away in the hospital bed, creating cross bookmarks out of pastel yarn and plastic canvas and decided to bring along her postage collection. I’d show her how I recently organized it, separating each country’s stamps into their respective envelopes.
Then I woke up and realized my grandma was still dead and what a stupid idea that stamp collection thing was.
