building a house

In my sleep last night we were all at the party.  I couldn’t list off every name of who “we” was–I didn’t know everyone–and there was no sense at anytime that anyone was missing.  The party though was not in a church gymnasium this time.  It was in my Grandpa and Grandma’s back yard.  Grandma was busy getting everything ready.

There was a hired hand out mowing the lawn.  That used to be Grandpa’s job, and one of his favorites.  Several years ago he started falling while tinkering around in his shed.  He wasn’t able to mow anymore and soon he wasn’t able to keep us his garden.  Before he put his garden there we used to search that side of the land for wild strawberries.

I walked up to the back yard to find that there were stepping stones newly placed in ground they’d never been before.  Each one had been decorated by a woman or grandchild.  The hired hand was still mowing, I still could hear the weeds being whipped beneath the trees, but then another man was there on the stepping stones with Grandma.

He was handsome, not tall, and when I saw him I thought to myself, “I’m taken.”  I was delighted and impressed by the surprise of the stepping stones, and there was always somebody else he was talking to.  My aunt made a joke about all the girls liking him, the one I could talk to the most about boys.  I finally went inside thinking, “He’s taken too”.

The mowing was finally finished at dusk.  The dream ended with me looking out at the land from the road. If I was standing, or riding away in a car, I don’t know. I was at total peace and in awe of the beauty of “the property”, where I stood in the hole that became the foundation, where we saw every plank and hammered the nails, where we played in the sandbox, and climbed the rocks coming out of that gigantic hole, where a house became our childhood home, where the deer run free and the strawberries grow.

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