Our dreams are not like hers.

We dream of riches,
Of fantasies and flight,
Of running through fields of wondrous creatures full of life,
and ponds full of lilies and dragon flies swarming around us as we slowly twirl while the sunlight lightly strikes our half lit faces…

She does not dream like us.

We dream of majestic impossibilities so detailed we can almost feel its trueness,
But not all dreams are impossible.

What about her dreams?
Grandmother’s?

She dreams of baby steps;
Of a day without pains in her knees and a skip or two in her step.

Grandmother dreams of our everyday movements.
She dreams of walking,
Something so possible it can’t be a dream.
A task so simple that its haunts her.

Grandmother tells me of last night’s dream.
One where she walks and as she speaks
Her eyes light up like the sunlight’s beams.

She wants to rise and stand without having to hold on.
She wants to walk around without this pain,
Without this weakness,
Without this simple attainable possibility.

She goes to bed and she dreams yet again.
She dreams of walking,
Simply walking,
But this cannot be a dream.
This feels so natural, so simple and common.
In her dreams she is living.

Grandma doesn’t dream like you and me.