In Which I Have a Dream About my Dead Grandfather
We are in the house where I grew up,
the one my family hasn’t lived in for years,
and he is apologizing for getting
the wrong wine to go with dinner
The wine is a metaphor
I know he means
I am sorry for the leaving
I am sorry for looking at my family like it was
a sinking ship
something I should abandon
I am sorry things were never what they once were
even when I came back
even when I tried to plug up the holes
sometimes too much damage has already been done
sometimes too much water has already been taken on
I tell him it’s okay
we don’t need the wine
and the okay is not a metaphor
I’ve made my peace with
the water damage
Then he is looking for toys from my childhood
maybe the legos or the matchbox cars
he was hoping to see them again
and now he can’t find them,
and I can’t speak, can’t tell they are gone
I walk out the door and suddenly
our suburban home
is by the ocean
the waves are twenty feet high
but they do not crash
I walk to the edge of the water
and scream
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Grace Moore is a writer from Washington. She writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and the occasional poem. She also writes articles on travel, mental health, writing, and books. Sometimes she’s funny, or at least that’s what her mom says. Follow her on Instagram @gracieawriter.
