Nightmares are picking the scabs of grief: my grandma has been showing up in my dreams in the most gut-wrenching ways.
In her coffin.
Or standing behind a window pane, dressed in gharish clothes, beckoning me.
I run to her, but instead of her beloved and familiar scent of powder and perfume, my nose is filled with pungent formaldehyde.
Sleep eludes and my face presses into the pillow that catches my tears.
I wake up sobbing, wanting so badly to call her. To hear her voice. To feel the warmth of her smooth hands in my own; to study the maze of raised veins that map her years and sustain her.
But I can’t.
Instead I pick up the phone and call the life once-removed from grandma: my mom.
I cry into the air, giving birth to regrets and wishing to return to May when she was next to me laughing, white curls hugging the nape of her neck.
Mom says that instead of regretting, instead of longing to call the grave, I should remember to reach out to loved ones still here. I should seize the opportunity to send a note or connect with people God lays on my heart.
It sounds trite, but I know she’s right.
It won’t make the nightmares stop.
But it does help me to remember to love with all my might, right here. Right now.
No regrets…just love.