shades of purple

It's been 20-25 years since my Grandma Mary moved out of her house at 123 N. Gillette. But I dream of that house so often, and in such vivid detail, that it's hard to believe how much time has passed. In dreams it's new and it's old; it's home but it's not. It's mine for the taking, but I'm almost afraid to claim it.

I dream about the view of the street from the screened-in front porch where I used to play, and I look out past the magnolia tree, hoping I'm safe from whoever may be outside. And though she's not there anymore, Grandma's comfy chair is in the same corner, facing the T.V. The room is otherwise empty but for a hint of stale cigarette smoke and faint echoes of laughter in the corners, sparkling like visions of the costume jewelry she kept hidden in her bedroom.

The dining room is no longer crowded with furniture or piled high with remnants of a depression-era urge to keep everything because "you never know when you might need it." Now it's open and empty, ready for a new purpose, waiting for me to let some light in. I can see through the glass doors of the two bedrooms off the dining room, and they are so full of stuff that I can't even walk in them.

Sometimes I go through her things, unfolding and refolding her clothes, deciding what to keep and what to discard, making room for myself. The colors are vivid, and royal purple is always prevalent.

Sometimes I cook in her kitchen, and everything is as she left it; I always know where to find what I need. I never fail to notice the kitchen door and the steep concrete stairs leading down to a sprawling yard, a stand-alone garage full of more junk, and the vegetable garden beyond. I look out over the garden and think of the wild, unfettered dreams that could grow there...

I wander through the house, taking stock of what's left and treasuring every familiar nook, every alluring doorway, every shade of purple. I've inherited something that can't be quantified by the things, the rooms, or even the memories. It's rightfully mine, to make what I will of it. She's not there, but she's a part of me and my laughter is her laughter.

I never dream of the small apartment she eventually moved into, or the nursing home where she spent her last days. And I never, ever dream about the empty lot left behind after the house burned down some ten years ago. In my dreams the structure stands, but the unanswered questions--the things we don't talk about--linger in the shadowy corners.

And when I'm awake, I remember what remains: the laughter, the wonder, the purple, the sparkles...and the little princess with pretty brown eyes and shiny red hair, who grew up without a castle.