For the second time in a week, I dreamed about the Greyhouse.
This time, the house is empty, just as it was during my final walk-through. Unlike last time, however, instead of the New Owners being soul-crushing jackasses, they agreed to let us have one final weekend in the house. Consequently, it happened to be the weekend that I was getting married.
I know, right? If you know me, you know two things: (1) how much I am not a fan of weddings and (2) how much I AM NOT A FAN OF WEDDINGS. (Weddings and Marriage are not interchangeable, mind you.) Why the bleep must I couple the pain of losing this house with the stress of having a wedding there? Dreams are curious creatures.
Okay, but you know how most wedding dreams seem to let you get all ready for it, but then you wake up before you get to the happy ending? No, not this time. For the first time in my life, I actually get married in a dream. It's in the Greyhouse. Everyone who loves me is there, crying happy tears, telling me they knew this day would come.
"See, Aimee? Not all men are lying bastards," someone says to me when the wedding is over and I'm standing there, basking in the absurdly happy glow of being Mrs. Happy Ending. The house is full of happiness, and the same furniture that was there in my childhood. Suddenly, everything feels right in the world.
I steal a moment with my new husband, who is an introvert and has hidden himself away from the throngs of people. Obviously, my kind of man. ;) I'm still wearing my dress, and for a moment I just sit down on his lap and lay my head on his shoulder. With his arms around me, I know that nothing in the world can touch me. He knows how much the house means to me, and this last weekend in it. He tells me I can stay there, with my family, for the rest of it and it won't bother him. But I put my hands on his face and tell him not to be ridiculous: Of course I'm coming home with him.
The whole concept of the dream, really, centers around HOME. Home is more than a house. Home is, as they say, where the heart is.
My heart still lies in that house, obviously, or I wouldn't be crying over it, no matter how traumatic the dream.
Then, as dreams go, it is suddenly the next evening: our last evening forever in the house. My uncles and cousins are there, my parents, siblings, and grandparents. The house is empty again except for the living room and kitchen furniture.
I've spent the day walking around the house, the outside of it, the garage, the carport, the basketball court, collecting miscellaneous items that my grandparents had forgotten. Some old family photos, a bookmark that belonged to my great-grandfather. A ring, a necklace, a frame. I filled my arms with the sentimentality and took it inside, but no one seemed too terribly concerned that these great family treasures had almost been left behind. Everyone is having...fun. They are chatting and laughing and pretending like this is a typical family gathering, and not the funeral that it is. I am sad. Baffled. And feeling alone in my principles.
The new owners, too, have sent in the first of their work crews. They are, piece by piece, tearing down the banister.
At this point in the dream it begins to feel real, and suddenly everything feels like it's getting away from me. I can't find my camera to take one last picture. I can't find my husband to give me a comforting hug. I can't find all of my cousins to get them together for the final snapshot. I can't do anything but stand there, still in my wedding dress, and stare as the two carpenters hack and saw and tear apart the dreams of my youth, one piece at a time.
It's over.
My sister finally locates my camera and starts hollering for the cousins to get in there for the picture. But by this point the banister is halfway gone. The two carpenters seem puzzled by my behavior. No one can understand why I'm having such a horrified reaction to everything. Neither can my cousins. They all clump in for a snapshot, which turns out terribly, and then everyone is back to laughing, reminiscing, without a care in the world.
Once again I try to find my husband, because I know that he knows how awful this is for me. I can't find him anywhere, so I call him.
When he answers, I say, "They're cutting down the banister. They're killing my heart."
He says, "Oh, babe, I'm so sorry," and I can hear it. There's sincere grief in his voice. He loves me that much, to be heartbroken over my own inexplicable sadness. "I'll be right there," he says quietly. Even amid the happy chaos around me, my heart still hears the whisper of the tender words: "I'll come there and I'll bring you home."
And then I woke up.
