a voice from the world of dreams

she will not read to me the tales of Tom Sawyer
or tell me what's behind the wardrobe, anymore
I want to know who killed the wicked witch
and if the blond girl is still falling down the rabbit hole
but she only smiles and lets me go gently into the world of fairies alone

she takes my hand and guides me into the comfort of reality
slowly, surely, she walks, step, by step, down the path of her life
the branches and thorns already cleared for me to follow unharmed
I am old enough now to know that this is special
her words are no longer hidden by the shadows, no longer guarded by pain

I see through her eyes into the past
when women held the world in their hands but possessed nothing
they lingered in the joys of family, and home, and daily chores
yet, dreamed of something more
a dream that had no form but was real all the same

she tells me of days when she lived a life that wasn’t her own
trapped in a globe of fallen snow for others to shake
and nights when worry haunted her eyes
when sleep was yet another unknown she could not control
but always the spring rain washed her pain away to grow in the fertile soils of hope

she speaks of life in its essence, of balance
of children playing among the wildflowers of the graveyard
and of a depression with riches beyond the stars
she pieces together for me a quilt with the fabrics of death, and birth, and growth, next to one another
and I feel its warmth within my arms, clinging onto my soul

her words weave me into this world
connecting my life to faces I can only see as I look into her tired eyes
as the darkness of the night overtakes us, her voice dims and I see she is through
but I do not want this journey to end
some other day, my dear, she sighs, now let’s fly to never never land or eat honey from the Pooh bear’s pot

I reach to hold her and tell her I know it will never be the same another time
but I am too late, she has slipped softly into my sleep, a voice from the world of dreams
I wake to cry for my loss, a loss that has reached beyond a grandmother’s molasses cookies and warm hugs
yet, I am blessed, for she is now more to me then the story teller of my youth,
she is the giver of answers,
answers to questions I could not have known to ask

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