“Is it you?” I heard in my summer dream, a few days after I saw Grandma’s eyes on me.
I’d been walking by her window for months. I’d never heard her voice or even caught her attention so far as I knew. I never saw her eyes. I couldn’t. I tried, but even with my glasses on, I just couldn’t see that much detail. But when I woke to that voice in the night, I immediately thought it was her. Or maybe I just hoped it was. No, I knew. It was her. It was Grandma.
I wanted to know her situation. Was it anything like I imagined? She seemed so cool. One look at her, and you would know she’d seen the world and survived all it showed her. I was also half asleep, and alone in the city. Even imaginary Grandmas have a special draw to them.
“Is it you?” the voice said again.
The accent was cute, and not too thick. It made you think she could really throw down in the kitchen with veggies and meats and music playing the background. Her voice sounded warm too. I wanted to answer, but I just sat there in her kitchen, watching her move about the kitchen making magic. I fell back asleep, deeply, as if I’d eaten one of those meals and passed out gorged and happy.
When I woke to my 7:00 alarm, my bedroom smelled like potatoes and garlic, and meat, and yeast, and foods that warm you on a cold winter night. My alarm radio sang about the 75-degree forecast for the day, and I was conflicted about what to wear to work. I managed to dress appropriately and get out the door, and I rushed to the train, knowing I wouldn’t see her in the window until I came home.
The day passed somehow, but I couldn’t stop remembering images of the kitchen walls, the smell of her cooking, her voice.
“Is it you?” she asked.
Why couldn’t it be? Why should it be? I wanted it to be. But what did that mean?