Coming Home

 

In my dream,
I drove down the laneway
behind my Grandma's house
on Christleton Avenue.
I pulled my car into the space
where my Grandpa
always parked
his brown and white
Ford Fairlane.
He was a Ford man,
swore they were the best.

His parking spot
was the other side of
the flower garden,
where an aromatic blend
of sweet peas, hollyhocks and pinks
sweetened the summer air.

To the right was the weeping willow,
and the hammock
where I swung lazily
on summer afternoons,
my nose in a book.

In the dream,
I pulled right up
and parked,
feeling like I was
coming home.

It is a little eerie to have such a dream at my age. But if I find myself there, on the Other Side, I will indeed feel right at home.