My grandmother was in the hospital. She was dying and I sat beside her in her bed to keep her company. Her right side pressed against me and I could feel her pulse through her nightgown. But then her heart stopped. There was simply no more beating. She slept beside me with her heart stopped and I didn't know what to do. I waited, hoping, "please start. please start." I didn't want to have to start CPR on my sleeping grandmother. The seconds spanned ages, until, finally, tere was a triplet of beats. The last one felt huge. A pause, and then her heart continued again. She was dying.
I got out of bed quietly crying to myself. My grandmother still slept. she didn't know what had just happened. The hospital was dark but I knew I should tell a doctor. Sitting on the hospital floor with my knees against my chest and my face in my hands, the dream lost form and continued in the space between fingers and crying eyes. I needed to tell someone but couldn't, because nobody knew.
The metaphor began to break down and I knew it was about my love for you, my broken heart, and not my grandmothers. There was no one I could tell. And then my best friend was there. He came to listen and to help, but he didn't know the details of us, and I couldn't tell him.
So I cried, for me, for us, for what couldn't be.