Make Believe Conversation

My dreams have always been real.

Seemingly more real than my everyday existence. I'm never limited by my dreams. In them I walk, swim, run, fly, feel, breathe all at once. I do whatever I want.

I dream of people, places, things, faces and days. From the first dream I can remember up until now, my dreams have always been lucid. The colors are wonderful and intense like a still summer sky . The kind where it's so real you wake up and feel moisture collected in your palm, hair, eyes, feet. The kind where you open your eyes and reach for your pounding heart and pray that you're still alive and breathing.

My dreams were collective. Some bad some good. Men throwing punches, people making love, you getting lost in supermarkets, driving your mini pink Corvette down the park intersection, running through churches getting chased by giant dinosaurs, cutting your hair off until there is nothing left at all.

These are some of my recurring dreams.

But then there is one particular dream I keep coming back to. A dream involving someone I met a handful of times. Someone who once was real but now lays sleeping in a quiet grave.

My great grandfather appeared to me in dreams like a best friend would on a rainy, puddle stricken day. My mother's grandfather lived with his wife on a farm in North Carolina. A poet, a father, a farmer, a lover, my grandfather and I share a connection without any real basis. For me, it was through dreaming. But for him, it was set in his will. Money for my future.

My impression of him was cast in a funeral home. The first real memory I remember of him, I stood over his casket wondering how long it would be until he woke. He was as still as the dolls that sat on my shelf at home. He was pretty and peaceful with white silver wisps of hair and a smile that made me think of warm macaroni and cheese and children's picture books.

I was too young to understand what had happened. That he died of old age in his sleep, and that he wouldn't be waking up anytime soon.

The night before he died, I had a dream of him. A dream that I was with him. All that I remember are bits of pieces of scenes. Us walking through the corn field, him picking fruit off the tree, us sitting down at his kitchen table, me following him through his shed, him smiling like a food, laughing at my incessant questions.

Great Grandpa James Waitus Harrell.

The dream was surreal. A dream where nothing in particular happened. No real narrative--just flawless imagery--a beautiful day, a wonderful experience. The scene was all too perfect until it happened. Until he died in my dream. Suddenly. Like a bolt of lightning. It all happened so quick. The last flash before the blink of my eyelashes.

But because we had spent the day together, because I got to spend his final day by his side, I woke up feeling okay. My palms didn't sweat; I didn't cry to my mom. I didn't worry or feel scared. I simply lay in bed until real life hit, and my mom came in to tell me that my grandfather had died. That he passed away in his sleep.

I tried to tell her that I had dreamt he died. That I knew it would happen but I didn't know how and she wouldn't have believed me if I tried. Me, the daughter with the crazy lucid dreams. Me with a penchant for the dramatic.

But this time, it made sense. He had spoken to me before he left. He wanted to make sure that I would remember him and that I would be okay. Now 21, I recently found out that he set aside some money for me in his will. Money for my future--a bond that would develop over time.

Not long after I found about about this, I found myself flipping through an old family album. Pictures from the past--people I'd never seen, places I'd never been. Through them all, the only consistency was the occasional appearance of my great grandfather. Tall, striking, mysterious. A poet turned farmer, I found out so much about my grandfather listening to stories about photos and observing his captivating expressions.

I found out that he lived a double life. A free spirited soul with the hands of a farmer who'd been working the same field his whole life. A man of many hats, his most important was that of a father. He was selfless, a kindred spirit, a lover, fighter, sharecropper.

And most poignantly--at least to me--a great grandfather. But only briefly. Only in dreams.

As I stared into the face of the man I'd heard stories about and only met through my dreams, I was overcome with questions. Questions I wanted to ask him.

There is unfinished business, I know.

There is a reason I am filled with wonder and why I want to know why....

There is a why.

The conversation with my dead grandfather would go something like this,

1. Tell me the biggest sacrifice you've ever had to make.

2. How many times have you fallen in love? Was it worth it?

3. How do you mend a broken heart?

4. Work. Why do you turn your back on your passion and accept responsibility for a life that didn't have to be yours?

5. What do you dream about? Do you have any reoccuring dreams?

6. Did you think of me? What did you think of me?

7. What was your biggest secret? Something you never told people?

8. What did you love most about yourself? Hate as well?

9. If you could have done anything, traveled anywhere, where would you have gone and done?

10. The best memory of your life.

11. Your biggest influence and why.

12. Did you ever wish for anything and it come true?

13. Death. Were you afraid of it?

14. Faith. Did you believe in God and why?

15. What were your hopes for me?

16. What would you think of me now? Do you keep up with me where you are? How am I doing?

17. If you could come back for one day only, what day would you go back to? And why?

18. One thing you could fix about the world.

As a journalist, I'm used to coming up with interview questions on the spot. Coming up with questions was never hard. The hard part was making sure I didn't leave anything out. Returning home with notes at home, I would realize that there were so many holes. Places I'd forgotten to mention and probe into. Secrets left uncovered, motivations unknown, faces lacking description.

Knowing this, I get the same feeling with this interview. How could I pick the right questions? How could I be sure that these were the best questions to ask? And why am I asking these? Would he stutter, pause, get confused, think these were the wrong questions? Suggest others?

But then I realized that it doesn't really matter. These questions are based on a man I knew from my dreams. Someone I think--but don't know really--I had a connection with. Someone I feel like I need to know more about. He is a person I'm sure I missed out on. Those days spent walking through the fields. Preserved like jelly. I fear they'll eventually go bad.

My only safety net--the only true preservative rests inside my glass mind.

These are questions that will never be answered face to face. But maybe if I'm lucky, they'll be answered within the mind. In my dreams again.

I may not get a face but perhaps I'll meet his spirit.

A metaphysical intersection.