Bee

I am dreaming.

I stand in my grandmother's home. In her old dining room my feet on the cold tiles.

Her large solid wood table to my right, it's white and blue checkered cloth draped over it waiting to be used.

It is silent.

The sun is peaking through the glass doors to the backyard and I am staring over the bench into the kitchen. The sun shining through the window down onto the same benches and cupboard of my childhood years.

And yet I can not open my eyes.

I see every room I go into and I feel the warmth and love that was there every day she was.

And yet I know my eyes will not open to see these now.

I feel them see and yet I know they are still closed.

I see the loungeroom where I played games of Scrabble and monopoly and fights broke out but also moments of joy and love.

I see the chair that she loved to sit in.

I reach her room.

Her quilted bed still facing her tiny tv. The afternoon sun peaking through the blinds. Her soft quilt of cream and pink roses reminds me of summer afternoons reading together, my head resting against her side, lifting with each inhale as she strokes my hair. The soft warmth of comfort filling my soul with each gentle stroke and each gentle breath of her lungs.

The silence of the room is comforting in its familiarity, as if I will turn around and see her entering to give me a warm hug.

And yet I cannot open my eyes.

Because I know.

I am dreaming.