You worked as a kindergarten teacher and with some special intuition guessed what was bothering the children—who was cold, who was hot, who had a stomach ache. They could not speak for themselves yet.
You know, when my son turned one, I had a dream. Your mother (my grandmother) appeared from somewhere in a robe and apron, came over to my son, who had just used the potty. My grandma took the full potty to the bathroom to flush.
This was the first time I dreamt of my grandmother after thirty years since her death. She came to us to take out the potty used by my son. My wise grandmother. She was probably a bit tired there, in eternity, from her exalted blissful state and visions of heavenly bodies and God, surrounded by seraphs and cherubs. She wanted to feel a different type of bliss for a moment, and leaving heaven came to us to take out the potty her great grandson had used.
But you, mom, don’t even visit me in my dreams. Initially after your loss, every evening, coming home from work, I hurried to go to bed and close my eyes. No, this was not depression. I simply waited for you to visit me in my dreams. I already knew that we would never meet again on this Earth, and I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in dreams. Dreams are doors. That is the reason I hurried to sleep in the hopes of you visiting me. I did not believe that you would not be able to come to me through this door.
However, time passed, nightmares came one after another; hospital beds with motors, droppers, pills, oxygen masks, all the things which filled your life in your latest years, transformed into my dreams.
But I never saw you.