Be honest “The night my Nonna died, I dreamt of her and later woke up about four hours before sun rise, feeling sticky sweat slide down my face in uneven, uncomfortable strokes. And, yet, I knew almost immediately that it would be impossible for me to go back to sleep.”
The Church was filled with a reverence that I think could not be replicated in any other place in the world. As per a common habit of mine, I began to look at the facial expressions of the people around me. Most were unreadable, but you could tell from the sombre atmosphere that suddenly the congregation of family and friends were in deep thought. I hate funerals. I couldn't even remember why I was at this one in particular. They all seemed so frequent nowadays.
The speaker took a deep breath and continued.
“The dream was vivid and, although I was sick at the time, I believe my new coat of sweat was purchased by fright rather than illness. The dream started with me at school and noticing my Nonna there. She was apparently there as a guest, and now that I think about it...”
The speaker laughed nervously, shedding a tear in the process – something that seemed to sharply contrast with his masquerade. It was an image that I would later ponder for hours in bed at nightfall.
“... now that I think about it, I guess it was a bit weird. But you know how dreams are. You don't pick the holes in 'em until you get back into consciousness. Until then, though, even the most unreal notions can become a reality. And there's no escaping dreams like the one I had. My first reaction to seeing her was embarrassment. I hid behind my friends, pretending not to see her.
“The guilt was overwhelming, however, so I sat next to my Nonna in the first class and only class of my dream: Physics. Again, weirdly, I sat in the opposite direction to everyone else in the class. Maybe I was supposed to translate my Nonna, whose first language was Italian. But I think the reasons were deeper. In any case, I'm not fluent in the language.
“Nonna asked a question, in struggling English, 'When I... die... will... will I raise to Heaven in Italy where I was born... or in Australia, where I will die?' And the class laughed at her, laughed at her naivety. In my dream, the laughs echoed and echoed and echoed...”
I noticed an old woman crying into her hands in the corner of the Church. She actually started wimping and, at this point, I was considering leaving because I could no longer bear the mourning nor the speaker's nonsense about his “Nonna”. I actually left my sit but someone with concerning eyes forced me back down. The person's face looked familiar but I could not generate a name for it. At my age, I forget a lot of things.
“'Give her a break. She's an emptologist', one of the classmates had said, spitefully. And I asked him what the word meant, knowing it was a product of my lucid dream. 'It's someone who holds onto their religion because it's the last thing they've got.'
“They did not give her a break though. The school's authorities took her away and the last I remember of the dream was my Nonna's wrinkled, tired face, fading away into the abyss of dreamless sleep. Nonna could no longer bear life without anyone understanding her. We need each other. I miss you, Nonna”
The speaker finished his speech and sat next to me, allowing his arm to fall over my shoulder. He called me, “Nonno”, and I just smiled. This person was keeping me alive.
