I had a night out on the town of Houston with a few friends last night. Drank, played, talked and had a generally fun time. Got home from it pretty hammered but surprisingly had a lot of trouble getting to sleep. I had the fortune of getting to sleep for an hour or so and this is the dream I had:
I was going to get more liquor, for more frivolity and excitement with my friends. I turned up at one store where there was a jovial, smiling man behind the counter. Whatever it was I was buying, I had to register for it on the phone or over the internet and he had to find my name for it. So as he’s going through the registry list, he’s talking. I hear he has a Haitian Accent, but I don’t acknowledge it. I’m in too much of a hurry to get to partying again. He finds my name on the list and this look of … shock… amazement… disbelief… takes over his face. “Cantave”… he uttered my name. And I responded… yes? Thinking… maybe they didn’t have my product or whatever. “You’re family,” he said with excitement… like he’d just found his long lost sister. Then he said… “Papa Osmain. Marie Therese Roche….” And the recognition paralyzed me. My maternal grandfather and grandmother. I held my hand over my mouth in disbelief. “How do you know them?” He explained that he was an orphan, and my Grandmother took him in and raised him with all her other children and that she is a saint. I noticed some full, hot tears brimming in his eyes and the prospect of being united with her again. And I started to cry. In the dream and in real life.
How do I tell him that she passed away?
4 years ago. Today.
I miss you Grandma. So Much….
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