Free The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma by Iain Reid Page B

city-regulated tap water and the “good” stories in our newspaper.
    â€œMmmmm,” she says. “Delicious.”
    More quiet.
    â€œSo,” I blurt, eyeing the newspaper, jumping into it like a conversational lifeboat, “what’s going on in the world, Grandma?”
    â€œI’m not sure, dear.” She picks it up. “Let’s see.”
    I stand again, neurotically, to check on the coffee. She must have been only a few sentences into the top story before resting the paper back down. “You know what happens more, now that I’m old?” she says. “I see things at night, in bed. It happened again last night.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI see things when I close my eyes. It’s never for long, because I always fall asleep so quickly. But for a little while I just see things, colours. I’m not sure how else to explain it. It’s just images and colours and movement.”
    â€œThat sounds odd.”
    â€œI love it,” she says.
    â€œI’ve never experienced that, even though I frequently dream.”
    â€œDid you dream at all last night?” she asks.
    I can’t recall the last time I’ve fallen asleep quickly or the last time I’ve been asked about my dreams. People aren’t usually interested in the dreams of others. I walk over, handing her a cup of coffee as I answer. Now she has something cold and something hot. One for each hand. “Yeah, I think so, I usually do. But I don’t remember about what. I wish I could. I almost never can remember. Did you?”
    â€œI did dream, yes, all night. Mostly boring stuff you wouldn’t care about.”
    â€œReally?” My first sip is life-restoringly good.
    â€œOne was very strange. I think I’ve had only about three nightmares in my entire life. But last night was very close to a nightmare.” I collect my mug, pull out my chair, and sit down at the table with her again. I take a sip before answering. I do make great coffee. I wonder if she can perceive the quality of the coffee I produce?
    â€œThat sucks, Grandma. What kind of nightmare are we talking about?”
    â€œIt was very odd. I just remember falling. I was falling and it just seemed to go on and on. I don’t even remember the story, or plot, or what have you. I don’t even know what the point was or why my mind was set on this image of just falling and falling. It’s strange, isn’t it?”
    â€œSounds awful.” Unlike this perfectly brewed coffee, which is outstanding.
    â€œIt wasn’t as bad as I’m making it sound. It was still just a dream, and I always enjoyed dreaming. I still do. Even when it’s not a nice dream. I think it’s still good for me to be dreaming.”
    As we chain-sip, I wonder if dreaming, like most things, is dulled by age. Do dreams, like taste buds, lose some of their authority over time? Do our dreaming legs atrophy? Is that why an especially vivid dream, like last night’s, really resonates with Grandma? It seems logical.
    She continues, “Even if I’m just falling, or it’s a weird dream, or nonsense, I really do still believe it’s good for me. It must be good for us.”
    When you get closer to death, do dreams change? I wonder if dreaming about falling is in some way a metaphor for encroaching death? Is Grandma worried about dying, or is that too obvious? Or, I don’t know, maybe dreams sharpen with age. Maybe they grow more vivid and carry more emotional weight. Maybe because our bodies age and break down, dreams are more prevailing and, in this sense, theoretically freeing. Maybe dreams are more like a blue cheese that sharpens with age. Speaking of cheese . . .
    â€œHow about a little breakfast?” I ask. “Maybe some food will help us remember a bit more of our dreams.”
    â€œWhenever you want it, dear.” She picks up the paper again but looks straight ahead, past it.