Part XXIV: Them Dreams, They Come…

My grandma showed up in my dreams last night.

21May2025

“Hey, Gram – what’s up?”

“Thought I’d pop in to see how you’re holding up.”

“Me? I’m swell. Everything is peachy, especially considering I’ve been in quarantine for five and a half years, the covid thing is still just as dangerous as ever, there’s bird flu (again and some more), and half the people on the planet are pretending everything is just fine while the other half are pretty sure we’re standing at the precipice of self-inflicted annihilation. I dunno – some days it all feels pretty stupid, honestly. Other days, it feels really important to document the ebb and flow, just in case anyone survives to read about it. This is gonna be the most well-chronicled mass extinction event in the history of history.”

“Huh. Sounds familiar.”

“I was thinking you could probably relate.”

“Let’s just say my young adult years were anything but idyllic.”

“Remind me, what year were you born?”

“Your memory must be going, child. You used to know all those details.”

“Yeah – well – Grandma – my brain is full. I keep established facts in my spreadsheet where I can look them up when I need them. That leaves more space in my head to think about imponderables.”

Grandma smiled her trademark Mona Lisa smile. “You’ll have to show me how that works. I could have used something like that.”

“Right? Damned Alzheimer’s.”

“Double damn.”

“So I was thinking about when your parents died in the flu pandemic.”

“You and me, both. I think it surprised all of us. We thought we were safe because the big sweep of the disease had happened so much earlier. A lot of people had already died, but it just kept coming back again and again. It finally got to my parents. They’d both been sick with it before. We all had. But when they got it again, they were already weakened from having it earlier, and that last time, well, it killed them. There was nothing the doctor could do. We barely had a doctor for our little town anyway – he covered the whole county. He and his wife lost their own baby to the same disease. It’s a miracle he managed to survive it when he had to attend to so many sick people. They told us to keep our distance from each other, to wear masks. But people had to keep working and trying to stay alive. They couldn’t always take care about infection, I guess. My mother died first, and my father joined her less than two days later.”

“Why didn’t you get sick?”

“I don’t know. I was taking care of both of them, but for some reason it didn’t take me. I thought it might – so many people were sick and dying – but I guess I was lucky.”

“I’m glad you were, or we might not be having this conversation.”

“Did you forget that I died eventually anyway?”

“Oh – no – I haven’t forgotten. I’m just glad you were able to stick around long enough to be my grandma. So why are you haunting me tonight?”

“I can leave if you like.”

“No – no – please stay. I just wondered if there’s a specific reason you dropped in now, right in the middle of my memoir.”

“You know me too well, don’t you? Fine – I confess – yes, there’s a specific reason.”

“Are you going to make me guess?”

“That would be fun, but it might take too long. I’m on the clock, you know.”

“I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised. So, out with it, then.”

“Fine. Two things. First: I see you, wanting to save the world, because you would if you could.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I know. That’s just who you are. It’s a good thing. But…that leads me to the second thing.”

“Which is?”

“You’re just one person. And you’re human, with limitations, just like every other human. OK – maybe a few more physical limitations than some, but that’s not the point.”

“So what is the point?”

“The point is, no one person can save the world. You can only do what you can do. And everyone else has to do what they can do.”

“But it feels like I can’t really do anything. That’s a bit maddening, you know? Especially since I can see what needs to be done.”

“Hmm…yes…but you forget that you are doing something.”

“Am I?”

“You are. Just by being here, by taking up space, by telling your story. You’re connecting with people. You’re leaving proof – evidence – of your existence, your battles, your hopes and dreams. You’re using words the way other people use chemistry, or paint, or music, to help other people see you and to see themselves and each other in ways they otherwise might not. You’re giving permission for them to do the same, to connect, to care, to collaborate.”

“But I can’t do anything else. I can’t march, or speechify, or get to events.”

“Maybe not. And maybe you don’t need to. You’ve done those things. Now others can do them while you do what you can do. It’s enough. It keeps you busy. You can’t do everything – you never could. Nobody can. Just do your one thing and share it. That will inspire others to do their one thing. You’re teaching and validating. That’s enough. You being you and sharing what you’ve learned is enough. That’s why you started the memoir in the first place, yes?”

“You make a fair point.”

“I wish I had done something similar.”

“I wish you had, too, but I understand why you didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have known how, even if I’d had the time.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you could write it for me.”

“It wouldn’t be a memoir, then. And I don’t have all the details.”

“You can find the details. It will be fun – like a treasure hunt.”

“What if I do it wrong? What if I misunderstand what I’m seeing?”

“I’ll keep an eye on you. I promise to set you straight if you mess anything up. Maybe you can even make it better, more interesting.”

“I think that might shift it into historical fiction.”

“Whatever gets the word out so people will understand how lucky they are now, and how much work they need to do to heal the world and create a livable place for everyone.”

“OK – I’ll keep my eyes open for tidbits. Feel free to point me in the right direction.”

“That’s why I’m here, in the middle of your memoir. I’m pointing. You need to know about the past to be able to make sense of the present, yes?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Believe it. I’m glad we had this little chat. You’re doing just fine. Carry on. I need to get going now, but I’ll be back.”

“Where do you need to go now?”

“You’re one of my fifteen grandchildren. Y’all keep reproducing like rabbits. I have to ride herd on all y’all.”

“Oh – is that how it works?”

“So far. Everybody is still connected to everybody else, and we all have lessons to learn even after our bodies give out. So, no worries – you’re never going to be bored.”

“Thanks for that. Thanks for popping in.”

“Holler if you need me. I’ll see you again soon.”

She sent me an air-kiss, and poof, I woke up with a fresh assignment to add to my long list of stories to write. I’m sure she knows I’ve been working on her story for a long time now, putting together the bits and bobs of her life as I’m able to make the connections, but apparently she wants me to get on with it. It’s complicated because the details are scattered and most of the people with firsthand information are long gone. It’s also, though, very much a process of learning to understand myself better as I come to better understand my grandmother, and her mother, and my own mother. It's called “generational trauma” for a reason, eh? If we’re lucky, we have someone who can walk us through figuring out what that means. Everybody should have a guardian angel grandma. Or an IRL one. Or two. Or however many. Maybe we can grandmother each other.

So, I’ll keep on writing. It’s what I can do. Also, it keeps me more than busy here in my own little corner in my own little room. Life in quarantine doesn’t have to be boring. If anything, it allows me to be more focused on the stuff that really matters. I’m so grateful for that.

I’ll keep hoping and looking for more lessons from my grandmother. Her voice was silenced, not just by the relentless intensity and harshness of everyday life but by the conventions of her culture. She’s telling me to keep speaking up. I’ll do that, for her, for myself, for those who need reassurance that they matter, their existence matters, their life matters. It’s how we connect, and it’s those connections that will save us all.

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