the modern family

I had a dream, least it seems a dream to me now. Of a time lost, a past forgotten and of summer.

I dreamt my granddad was still alive to keep my brother in check, and my granny didn't grieve. He'd tend the garden and she would read.  My mother took long trips in the forest, and met up with her friends, daring to brave the frights of her mind. Our dog was barking away and we didn't morn her. Dad wasn't pestered about going out with his friends every now and then. I had a brother that hadn't broken his back and hadn't started smoking. His goal was to become a great football player. He was good, and he had a mind for maths also. My sister, she wasn't in the dream. I suppose it was before I learnt of her. And before my father became a grandfather. He always did like children.

Ruins. Debris. In ruins and debris.
Was it ever real?

Altzheimer and sorrow is eating away the brilliance of grannie's brain. Mum have dilutions and worries of my absent, self-centred, childish, stubborn, proud, to-good-to-grow-up-30year-old big brother. And my father is left mending the fuses as best he can. They all grieve.

To stubbornness, ignorance, intolerance and loneliness, I awoke. It seems unclear to me now. All I recall is shrouded in mist and mystery. Bits and pieces of whence I was alive.