Every Storm Runs Out of Rain

Last night I dreamed you were there. I was 18 years old again in dirty work pants. You pulled up in your old red Civic, walked out with that smile of pride on your face. And I thought, “What is there to be proud of, Nan? I’m as lost as can be. Doing work anyone could do.” But your smile remained, even seemed to grow wider.

We walked through the garden centre. The smell of petunias, geraniums, lavender, bleeding heart, all mixing into a sweet aroma. You closed your eyes and took it all in. You were in the moment, while I was somewhere else. Lamenting about the past, or fearing for the future. But you were right there, in it. Appreciating it. Appreciating each breath and the chance to talk about flowers with your grandson.

You said, “Do you know your flowers yet?”

“Not really,” I answered. And you lightly tapped me on my forearms and called me a little turkey, like you always did.

You told me about perennials and annuals and which flowers need more water than others. You told me that I had the best job in the world, and you’d love to work here. It would be your dream job.

“You can have it.” I said, and smiled. You smiled too.

We walked through the greenhouse, touching and smelling the flowers. You telling me stories about them. About how grandpa took you to a dance when you were young, and he placed a petunia above your left ear. A simple gesture, but you kept that flower and framed it, and it still hangs next to a framed picture of Jesus in your bedroom. You kneel down and pray before bed, and look at Jesus, and the flower. And it reminds you of how lucky you are.

In the dream I didn’t say I had to get back to work. I just said, “Keep going, Nan. I want to hear all about it.”

In my dream, a soft rain falls and the raindrops hit off the greenhouse but we’re safe and I have nowhere else to go. You have nowhere else to be. We have all the time in the world.

The rain falls, but then it begins to fall harder. It reaches a point where it drowns you out, Nan. I can’t hear you.

But you just smile. You gently rub my face and a tear falls. I’m reaching the point of a dream where I know it’s a dream.

“I miss you,” I say.

“I miss you, too.” She answers.

Outside the greenhouse, I can see the sun.

You tell me I have to go.

“Remember every storm runs out of rain.” You say.

I open my eyes and I’m lying in bed. You’re gone, and the storm is still relentless.