Her curly white head bent downward, she struggled against gravity to lift herself from the chair. Leaning all those years back against the creaky floor, she shifted her weight awkwardly as if struggling to keep her balance. Swinging perservering steps brought her rewardingly to the kitchen table where another series of bone-crunching moves were required in order to reseat herself. If those weary and worn out eyes could have made out the crinkled up pity of mine, I'm sure she would have felt ashamed.

"I had a dream last night," she said. "I dreamed I was young again and I was with my mom and dad. Why did I dream that?"

I looked down at her from the kitchen sink where I was filling a glass of water. "I don't know Mammaw," I weakly whispered. My mother sat motionless across the table. She was used to these tantrums my grandmother put on. Ever since her eyes were gone, and her friends dead..... She was all alone. She spent too much time thinking by herself.

The nights she sat up with her weary friends in the hour of their life-robbing illnesses. She talked to them, and even as she felt the shroud of death closing around their tired lungs, she stayed the night through. What devotion! And here I was angry with her for making my mother nurse her,and me listen to trivial complaints as there were no friends left behind for her. What a selfish thought.

Her eyes in their blindness could not speak, but I read in that vacant stare a sort of yearning. Someone to care about that dream and comfort her when she woke. But I would not listen. Fear spoke louder than love in my ear. I didn't want to listen to her lonely words and gloomy chatter. I wanted to leave immediately and forget about her fallen lips turned under with the grim set of her jaw, and her fragile white head.

So, I left there that evening. Forgetting would be the best thing I told myself. I felt uneasy here and of course my happiness mattered. I looked at her wondering if one day I would be the same: crinkly and misunderstood. After a long embrace, I walked away.

I think about her now and then...wonder what shedoes with herself during those long afternoons. They seem long to me and I'm only 18. Does she ever think about me and wonder if I've become too busy for her? Every so often I get the notion that I'll call her up and try to be the friend to her that she has been to so many others. But my intentions are overshadowed by guilt, and I'm ashamed of this. So, I'll probably never make that phone call. I'll let my pride keep me from her 'til eventually her wish is fulfilled, and she meets that savior in the sky that she used to tell me about when I listened with respect and innocence to her words.

Today, on the drive home from work, I decided to give my grandma that call. She would be so happy to hear my voice and know I didn't forget about her. In fact, I'd been thinking about her all along. I'd go visit her this weekend, and maybe she'd still tell me about that dream.

Content with this decision, I walked in the door. My mother's eyes were brimming with the mist of warm tears. I knew something was not right. I hated to see my mom cry. My dad stood with his aging hand rested upon her shoulder.

"What is it," I asked?
"Mammaw...she passed away in her sleep last night."

The other words melted away and my ears would not hear them. This afternoon, my grandmother shared her dream with the creator, and he heard her. So, he took her away to be a child again. To laugh and see the friends she let go of so many years ago. To see her mom and dad....