Every night that I get decent enough sleep, I always dream about you. Maybe not you, specifically. But you’re always there no matter what the situation. In all of my dreams I know that you’re dead, but that doesn’t bother me. It was the second night after you died I had a dream about us spending your last day together. Not how it actually happened, but rather how I always thought it would happen. In the dream I knew you were going to die, but I acted like I was unaware. We spent that day, much like any other: Watching Gunsmoke, Little House on the prairie, The Walton’s. We sat on the porch and watched the sunset, and the cars go by. I listened to your heart and lungs with my stethoscope, like I did everyday. They sounded the same: You still had fluid in your right lower lung, and your heart was still out of rhythm. Like always. I asked you about growing up on the farm, and when you bought your first Elvis 45. Then you said: “Grandma needs some ice cream.” So, like I always did I went to go get your favorite: Strawberry sundae, without nuts as they were difficult to chew with your teeth. When I got back with the ice cream you had passed in your sleep. But you didn’t look like you did when I saw you at the hospital. You didn’t have bruises from the failed IVs, and defibrillator pads. You weren’t intubated. I didn’t have to sign your death certificate. You were at home, and not in the emergency room. I miss you. I always will. The reality is I’ll never see you again. I guess there’s just a part of my brain that refuses to shut you off, and accept that fact. (at Norman, Oklahoma) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bo7LIAQFcJk/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=j2cn7tlp716g