I had a strange dream last night. I dreamed that it was nighttime, and the entire family was standing in your backyard in Mississippi. Everyone was there... all the cousins, all the aunts and uncles. We were all staring over a hill that wasn't supposed to be there, but nobody seemed to notice, or else we just didn't care.
Suddenly a bright light appeared through the shadow of the woods, and a plane or a helicopter landed and all of these people rushed to it. They had found you. You were no longer dead.
You weren't cured of the cancer though, and they carried you into the house on a stretcher attached to all of these tubes and plastic bags. You were going to be cared for at the house.
I watched as people that I didn't know rebuilt the bathroom in fast-forward, becoming a recreation of the changes we made after you had your stroke. I think that my mind was somehow combining the two diseases, probably because I didn't have enough time to adjust to the first before the second came and took you so quickly.
Yet even though this was my chance to spend time with you again, I'm saddened that I can't remember any of that. I can see your face, I can hear your voice, but I can't remember what you told me.
This is the first time I can ever remember dreaming about you in ten years, but I don't question the reason for it now. Today is Mother's Day, and mom has gone to visit Grandma, like we used to do every year. I stopped going a couple of years ago.
She says that Grandma's not doing very well. I'm ashamed that it doesn't really bother me that much. You know that I love her, but not the way that I loved you. Now she's just old, and frail, and a burden on mom.
It does bother me that I don't feel love for our family like I'm supposed to, but unfortunately it still doesn't make me feel it. I think I stopped caring the day they put you in the ground. She didn't tell me you were sick. She knew for a month and didn't tell me. It didn't even have time to sink in before she called me to the hospital to say goodbye. It wasn't fair, and I hated her for it.
I resent that she has been pressuring me for months to attend the reunion in June. You are the only reason I would go, and you aren't going to be there. I told her this week that I don't think I will be able to make it because of work. I could hear the disappointment and tears in her voice, but I didn't care.
Now as I write this letter to you, I think I understand even better why I dreamed about you last night. I think you were trying to tell me that this may be my last chance to see Grandma. What if I don't go, and she doesn't make it until Christmas? Whatever anger, or apathy, that I feel towards mom shouldn't take away from something that would make Grandma very happy.
I'm sorry Granddaddy, if I've disappointed you. I miss you very much, and I'm thinking about you today.