Dreams

This is a story that I wrote to be a child’s picture book--the kind where you enjoy looking at the beautiful artwork as much as reading the story. I hope to have it published someday. The main character is a young girl.

Dreams

Last night

I dreamt about you,

Grandma.

You were charming

and spunky, Grandma!

and you called me by name.

And you said

the most fun of all

was the delighted look

on my face

when I realized

that we were both

in the same room at once

and you were alive—

the grandma I never knew.

When I was just a little girl

Mama showed me

your beautiful oil paintings

hanging on the walls of our home.

But I couldn’t remember

much about you

Or even your face.

So it was a great joy

to hear you talk

and see you smile

even if it

only

lasted a moment.

When I look at

your paintings, Grandma,

I often wonder

what you were like:

what you wanted,

what you dreamed of—

Were your dreams anything like mine?

My mama gave me

a beautiful white handkerchief

edged in croqueted lace

that was yours, Grandma.

It has a finely embroidered “E”

on one corner

that she says

stands for

our very singular first names—

Ethel and Elaine.

I keep it

over the bridge

of the violin

I am learning to play,

a violin lying in an old case,

a violin that once

belonged to my mama.

She said

you found that violin for her, Grandma

because you loved music

from

the time

of your birth.

She told me

that

one day

when she was young,

the orchestra leader from school

came to see you, Grandma.

“I have a cello,” he says, looking right at my mama,

“I’d like her to play.”

My mama

is too shy to say

that what she really wants

is a violin.

She goes quietly to bed

because it is 1938

and times are still hard

And maybe, just maybe

a violin

is a luxury

that a history teacher’s daughter

can’t have.

What Mama doesn’t know

is that you, Grandma, will hunt

all over town

and spend

your hard-earned piano-teaching money

and even barter

to bring home a violin

because a violin is joy.

*********

Last night,

in my dream, Grandma,

you were painting

the beautiful picture

of the Teton mountain pass

that hangs over our mantel.

Mama was sitting

beside you

reading you a story

as you worked.

When I first saw your faraway mountains, Grandma,

my heart wanted to burst with joy

they were so beautiful

You wanted

to keep

what you’re seeing

forever,

so you got out

canvas, palette and brush.

The colors are bright and vibrant

and I want to touch the paints

before they’re dry.

You glanced at me suspiciously, Grandma

because you know better than to tell me

to keep my fingers off.

I’m so contrary,

I’d be covered with paint

in three seconds flat.

Since you knew

you couldn’t resist

painting all day long

if you once

got started,

you put your paints

away

when Mama was small.

Just the smell

of the oils

was too hard to resist.

Each stroke

of the brush

asks for another stroke,

until you’ve completely forgotten

about time and place,

and the only

reality

is on the canvas before you—

waiting

waiting

waiting

to be finished.

You set your brushes aside

for a season,

Grandma

because you didn’t

want to neglect

Mama.

Was it hard to wait?

******

The nights are getting cold now

But you won’t let

your beautiful chrysanthemums

freeze, Grandma.

You cut them

and find big buckets

to put them in

And then you work your magic.

“It’s just a little sugar,” you say

But the blooms seem to last forever.

Mama sees them

each morning

sitting on the screened-in porch

as she leaves for school

their bright faces cheering her.

(Is this why I love flowers, Grandma?)

*****

Mama told me

when she was smaller

she sat

in a little red rocking chair

just her size

listening to you, Grandma

playing the piano and singing

in the twilight

The setting sun peers

through the lace curtains

and patches of light

flicker across Mama’s face

as you sing.

If I were there

I would lay my head

on a soft pillow

next to your feet

just like you did

when your mama

sat at the piano.

Your hair is silky brown

and crinkly curly,

Grandma.

You could have

stood on a stage

and sang

And probably been a famous opera star

Your voice is so lovely.

But you said, no—

I want a little girl

and a home

and love—

so you married Grampa.

Mama whispers in my ear:

“She gave you her voice—

her lovely soprano voice.

You,

who I was afraid

would never learn to sing

at all.”

All I know

is

when I play

the piano and sing

I feel beautiful.

I feel as if I could

do anything

and everything

I wanted, Grandma.

But mostly,

if I sing

when I’m feeling sad,

I begin to feel happy again.

****

The day that your beautiful baby grand piano

came to live at our house, Grandma,

Mama cried.

How many piano lessons

did you have to teach

to earn it?

A hundred?

A thousand?

It’s a miracle that

I can’t comprehend.

Only Mama can dust

the fine wood.

She shows me

how carefully she strokes

the grain.

She says,

not only did Grandma play

beautiful pieces

on this piano,

but she composed

a few of her own.

I imagine

melodies playing

in your head, Grandma,

turning, twisting, looping, spinning.

The notes won’t stop

until you write them down.

(That “F” sharp is tickling your eyebrows, Grandma!

What are you going to do about it?)

So far you’ve come

from the curly-headed little girl

with vibrant eyes

perched

on a small stool

pounding imaginary melodies

on the seat

of your mama’s chair

and singing at the top of your voice.

*****

Mama tells me

about that day,

that amazing day

long ago

when she first

saw her beautiful violin—

It was one sunny afternoon.

As Mama comes in from school—

her eyes light up

and her breath catches

in her throat

a violin—

too precious

to be real—

is lying on the table

next to a weather-beaten case

You cleaned the violin

with a soft cloth, Grandma,

Rosined the bow,

tightened the strings

Then Mama

holds the violin

eagerly.

Soon you and Mama

will be invited

to play solos

all over town.

Now,

many years later

I am holding that violin.

I draw the bow

across the strings

Achh!

This sounds worse

than someone scratching

her fingernails

across a chalkboard.

Not at all like Mama plays.

I try again.

My cat’s ears

twitch back nervously.

Her startled eyes

stare at me.

I wanted to play beautifully.

“It will take time,”

Mama says softly.

“Watch me,” she says,

picking up my violin.

Doesn’t she know

I’ve been watching her

all my life?

****

Long before

I dreamed of playing

my own violin

I started following

Mama

to her symphony concerts.

She looks so fine

sitting on the stage

in her black concert dress,

the bright lights

glowing off her

beautiful

amber-colored violin.

When the music starts

I sit still as a pin

listening, listening, listening,

wishing

it would

never

have to stop.

Daddy’s eyes shine

as he looks up at Mama

from the audience

in the dark concert hall.

At intermission

I run back stage

to see Mama

and lay my head

on her soft arm

while she speaks

quietly

to the friends around her.

“Her grandma

started going to symphony concerts

when she was five years old,”

says Mama.

“How could I stop her?”

I want to follow you

everywhere,

Mama,

to every concert

to every performance

to every solo.

I don’t care where

just as long

as I can go

with you.

*****

Grandma,

Mama says I was listening

even before I was born.

Today she stops

her violin practicing

and says:

“When you were in here,”

(pointing to her tummy)

“I played violin in an outdoor opera.

The kind of opera

Grandma could have sung in.

I took pillows

for the hard chairs (she grimaces)

And you—

You got along the best you could.

The flute player next to me

wanted to feel a baby kicking

inside the womb.

I said, sure—

But you,

my fine young thing

would only kick

when we were busy playing the music.

Seems you wanted to dance and sing—

arms poking, legs kicking

while everyone was

dancing and singing

on the stage.

And then you insisted

on resting—

while we rested.

Now

try to tell me

you couldn’t hear the music!”

Mama’s chin quivers

as she says,

“I wish I could have

told Grandma how

amazing it was.”

I ask Mama:

Did you play that Brahms lullaby—

the one I love

before I was born?

No, says Mama

It was a beautiful song

Grandma sang to me

when I was small.

So I sang it

many times

while we rocked

and rocked

and rocked

when you were a baby.

Just when you

were about to fall asleep

you would begin

to hum along.

Now you just

sing in your sleep,

laughs Mama.

And I dream,

I tell Mama.

****

Last night

I dreamt about you,

Grandma

You were charming

and spunky, Grandma!

and you called me by name.

You stood up

as I came into the room

and took me in your arms.

You set your paint brushes aside

and led me

to your beautiful piano.

There underneath

I saw an old familiar case.

Worn, but with a treasure inside.

You pulled the case out

and gave me the violin, Grandma.

This will be yours, you said.

Don’t be afraid

to wait

for your dreams.

A violin

you hold

close to your heart.

Just the way

I will always

hold you,

Grandma.

 ©2004, Elaine C. Koontz