You know, I remember travelling across Pennsylvania as a child to visit my grandparents. Perhaps my recollection is due to the unforgettably hot summers and unforgiving winters. Maybe because it’s one of those little things that matter the most.
I can remember the road across cities from the back row of a family van. The kind that had the windows that kind of popped out to let fresh air in. For as far back as I can remember, closed spaces always made me anxious and moving vehicles only made matters worse. I could smell the noxious scent the van gave off as we rode down the highway. I tried my hardest to push my face just close enough to the window to be able to breathe without getting choked out by the air. The trip was always an uncomfortable one, unless I was sleep.
I can always see my grandparents vividly in my mind’s eye. They’re always at the dining room table with a hot cup of coffee and newspaper in hand. In the winter, grandma would hold festivities just for family and bake gingerbread cookies. They always kept cookies on the dining room table in a jar. My grandfather was a healer. People would travel to him just so that he would pray for them. He always read the bible, listened to gospel music and watched Christian television—the only deviation was the morning news.
Even though they’re gone, I still see them that way in my dreams. And I dream of them often. I’m not sure why my sleep always brings me back to the old house whether it’s wonderful or terrifying. Time has continued as it always does and always will. I still get sick if I’m in the car for too long. These are the years and we are their children.