5 AM Easter Morning.

Easter Morning

Easter Morning I rose in darkness
Affected by a dream
Hazy, warm, pulling my blankets around me
Found my way downstairs
To think about my grandmother.

The dream showed me this country woman, smaller, older
Who passed away several years ago
While I was stranded on another coast-
My grandmother as sure as anyone I ever knew was there.
She was pulling glass objects from boxes and sharing them with family,
If I'm truthful I didn't recognize everyone,
But they seemed family and the glass
Coded out for me somehow
Every reflection, facet, beautiful
Objectness of anyone who had ever crafted
Created, or walked before us.
She was sharing the pieces, what she knew of them.
Who made them or where they came from
Somewhere in all of this I put my head on her shoulder wondering
If she even knew me-that wasn't really answered either-
Though I assumed she did.
Many of the pieces were the most beautiful glass I've ever seen-we looked at them the way
One might view Native American treasures,
my family does love glass,
A crackled slightly, orange bowl was carefully revealed
As I asked about a crack- only to see others-she reassured me it was the kind of glass.
In my life my grandparents told us of family much this way
Their story, around a table.
This was around a low table, in a cabin-
except I felt the sheer value in this glass.
That was different.
To have a collection this grand.

A small child -beautiful blond-with a name tag in a Christmas tree shape-came in playing
Child to a cousin-her relations written on the tag. I knew them.
Kids darted everywhere and I explained to my two small girls.
One of mine leaving to the porch-grandma abruptly went to this wide open space too
Out on a beautiful wooden deck to gather others
Like the child had.

Somehow or other in this fascinating dream, so like my grandmother
I saw her doing these talks for televised crews as if
What she was saying suddenly had community value,
Was being recorded
And I recalled that while she was sharing her collection-
I asked about where this glass had come from- learning that much could not be returned
To rightful owners due to their passing from lives.
My father naming it with a word I can't recall.
Having their possessions with no one to give it back to.
Is that a word?

Easter this year brought me
A strange recollection of something that never was.
If I constructed it -then the warmth of her shoulder,
the gathering of family,
the feeling of belonging, the stories of who we are
these were the things-glass objects
That renewed my night life.