Last night I dreamed I was in my Grandma’s house. She was gone, but I wasn’t worried; I knew she was happy. Then I looked out the back door into the back yard and it was all paved over in blacktop. At first I was excited like a child and zoomed around the smooth surface in an office chair. I noticed that the back fence was gone and the blacktop of the yard blended in with the paving of the alleyway. It was then that I realized the yard was paved for a parking lot to accommodate the house’s future role as a small apartment complex. Distressed, I fled back inside and ran through the rooms, trying to drink in each feature with my eyes but I finally realized it was useless; looking preserved nothing. It's strange I woke up crying; mourning the loss of memory-soaked ceilings and walls. I wonder now why I cried less for my grandma than for her home, but then where does her home end and she begin? Her heart is in every brick, every tile. My grandma’s future departure didn't bother me till I contemplated losing the privilege of visiting and remembering inside her life's masterpiece of love.
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