It is now February 10th; and a past weekend wrought with a malicious flu-bug and various ailments has destroyed me. I now sit at the end of a grueling workday with my throat wrought with the beginnings of what could be laryngitis, but you know what...
.... I had the strangest dream last night. One of those dreams that just... flew out of nowhere; so realistic, that almost all of my senses were alight. Now see, I'm a highly religious person; though I do not let on, because I do not push my beliefs onto others... I know who my God is, I have let Him enter my life AND my heart nearly two decades ago, and I have lived by His word ever since. I believe in the afterlife; I believe in Heaven... and most of all... I believe in the prospect of loved ones who visit long after death. Last night, I sincerely believe that my grandfather visited me in a dream. Think what you may... it is truly what happened, in my humble opinion. It was just so REAL... and while I had lain in a feverish sweat, my slumber was pure euphoria. I'll try my best to highlight what happened... because I really do NOT want to forget this...
I remember, as a child, that church was a part of my life. A /BIG/ part... what shaped me into what I am today. Every Sunday, and perhaps even the odd Friday or Saturday, I would head on out to the usual sermons. There were many Roman Catholic churches that I frequented, depending upon whom I attended with: with my family, I would go to the parish of my baptism: St. Michael's, out in River Ryan. With my best friend at the time, John Paul, I often went to St. Joseph's... or, when his family came along... to St. Agnes Parish. I was a choirgirl for a looooooong while, there... it was really fun! I loved that church... it was quite large, and VERY old; the choir was often settled upon a veranda above the main altar, while large chamber lights were suspended from the ceiling rafters. While I flitted around to many different parishes... there was /one/ in particular that I hold a true fondness for.... such a modest, beautiful little church. Even 3000+ miles away, I still think about it...
That establishment was St. Alphonsus, a quaint little stone church that HAD to be centuries old; one can tell just by looking at it. One notable characteristic that always struck my fancy was that this particular church was situated on a hill, overlooking the Cape Breton coastline and ultimately... the Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing between the church, and that big, blue monster. The salty scent always heavy in the air; there was no getting away from the smell of it. I always went there with my grandmother, as a child... and many more times, as I approached adolescence. I was never really an outgoing kid... I kept to myself, and rather then chasing boys or investigating more... 'teenage' things... I remained a churchgoer. I followed my faith, and grew into my own... I didn't feel bad about being 'different', or 'alone' in my endeavors. I remember Saturdays, when my grandmother would go to mass up in that church on the hill... it was always at 5:00pm, and summers were especially splendid.
There were always blueberry pickers up in the vast fields behind the parish, and the sun was warm against the ancient gravestones that peppered the grounds. The sky would always be clear, and walking into St. Alphonsus... one would be greeted by that soft light shining through stained windows. The air mingled with both the scents of old wood, and salt water... and the sounds of the ocean's waves could be heard continually throughout the sermon. The attendants of mass reached to only about... 50-60 in numbers, and they ages were also in that range. Older men and women, with few children; people who were dedicated to the church, and always attended. My grandmother was one of those people (she still is, to this day). St. Alphonsus was the site of her Christening, back in 1928... her first communion... first reconciliation... marriage; she grew up there. I could always remember the love in her eyes, as she stood in that archaic building... hanging onto every word that the pastor preached.... standing in one of the four corners, in the foundation of her monumental life.
Yes, I remember it all. I dreamt about it, last night...
I sat in that church, on a sunny morning. It was the third pew, from the altar... I sat in front of the wooden box that harbored the communion. I was able to feel the warmth of the sunlight, --- (perhaps due to the insane amount of blankets I donned, in slumber... due to the chills I had) --- inhale the scent of old wood, and hear the water outside. There were roughly ten other people there; not including myself, my grandmother, and the man who sat to my left. Most of the other patrons were older; in their mid-seventies and eighties... but there was a child or two, with younger adults as well. I was my current age (19, nearly 20) in the dream, and I can remember exactly what I was wearing... the pale blue sundress with a tie-up sash around the waistline; I remember purchasing it in July, when my folks and I went back to C.B for a visit.
As always, my grandmother was content to be there... resting in the seat, looking in a hymn book. But what took me aback --- (I wasn't the slightest bit fazed, dream-wise... but imagine my surprise when I woke up) --- was that man who sat aside me. He was a stocky fellow, about seventy-six-years-old... brilliant blue eyes, white hair along the back and sides of his head (with a balding forehead). He wore navy blue slacks, and a grey polo shirt... while his old blue ball cap had to be set aside, out of respect. (He was in a church, after all.)
He looked kindly, and alert... he knew where he was; he knew about the people he sat aside, that his wife was aside him awaiting the beginning of the sermon, and that his granddaughter was busily counting the multitude of panels in the stained window nearby. That man was my grandfather, whose life was taken away after a heartbreaking and terrible struggle with Alzheimer's back in 1999. He knew nothing about the people who wept over him, as his days came to an end... he could not recognize the mess of grandchildren that he was blessed with, when he married my gramma loooong ago. I remember seeing him in the weeks that led up to his death; how grey and lost his eyes were, and how dilapidated he became.... having lost so much weight, and how he achieved such a gaunt appearance. But no... the man in my dream was healthy and full, his eyes were blue, and he wore his usual duds. He had recognition in that gaze, as he grinned at me; that was the face I always remembered. While I tallied up 'number forty-eight' in the panel-count of the aforementioned window, he jeeringly chimed 'fifty-six' to throw me off count. Long story short... at some point, I hugged him... it genuinely felt like I hugged him.
Yes; the man in my dream was Wilfred V. Mackinnon: former foreman of Sydney Steel Corporation, fisherman, and sailor... my grandfather.
I woke up after a cloud overshadowed the sun, in the dream... one of my cats stretched, and dug his paws into my shin. I couldn't help but lay there, sleepily... at about 4:37am... and at that point in time, I remembered my beloved grandfather for all that he was. I truly felt that he was now happy, and whole...
I honestly feel that people don't truly die... not even when the ferocity of something like Alzheimer's whisks away a human mind; it never truly wins. The will of a human spirit is honestly amazing... and I pray that someday, such terrible diseases can be beaten. Someday... but for now...
Thank you, grampa.
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Who can tell me if we have heaven,
You talk of the break of morning
One told me of china roses,
A new moon leads me to
I know that if I have heaven
I see the sun.
("China Roses" - Enya)
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(Kill the midi!)
Who can say the way it should be;
Moonlight holly, the sappho comet,
Angel’s tears below a tree.
As you view the new aurora,
Cloud in crimson, the key of heaven,
One love carved in acajou.
One a thousand nights and one night,
Earth’s last picture, the end of evening:
Hue of indigo and blue.
Woods of dreams and I follow.
A new world waits for me;
My dream, my way.
There is nothing to desire.
Rain and river, a world of wonder
May be paradise to me.
I see the stars.
~
(NOTE: Here's a picture that I took of the church from atop Mackessey Drive, where a bulk of my relatives lived. This was taken in September of 1999, the day before mom and I left Cape Breton. Summer was just coming to a close, and though it's a miniscule view... that larger structure facing the water is St. Alphonsus. Excuse the sunlight.)
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