Tata

My dreams have been speaking to me lately. I'm dreaming so much every night, and I'm writing down my dreams, and I'm remembering them. I always feel my best, my most creative, my most healthy, when I'm dreaming every night.

Two nights ago I dreamt about Tata.

Our family is at the beach, like always, and there is a long, quiet swell. I'm holding onto a string attached to a kite, being drifted out to sea. Tata's swimming and diligently smoking a cigarette. I drift slowly toward her, and I think about how everything is smooth and easy, and when she sees me she asks in English, "What are you doing?"

I take a second to think of the words. "Estoy volando," I say.

She smiles and I can tell she understands me, fully—her brain is not yet touched. Her eyes look strange—milk has seeped through the outer edges of her iris and is just now encroaching on her hard, black pupils.

"You want some?" She holds out the cigarette.

"Why not?" I take a slow, thoughtful puff, and I know I'm holding it wrong. She shows me how men in Cuba smoked.

"Your uncle did it like this." She takes a deep, deep drag and lets the smoke spill away, then she chases the escaped grey sinews with her open mouth and sucks them back in again. "We used to go crazy for that," she said.

Later we are on the phone and she says she knows why people are afraid to let her be near their children. She says she understands. That breaks my heart. "Is it hard?" I ask.

"Who is this?" she asks, looking at me. I'm on the tip of her tongue.

"Lucas. Tu nieto, Lucas."

"Lucas." She nods her head, like she had known all along. "I understand, it's just sad."


That is how my dream went. I got an email from Dad a couple days ago—Tata's MRI came back negative. No brain cancer. No stroke. Thank God.

The doctor said her cognition will improve as the chemicals from the chemo leave her body, and that's a relief. How much of our Tata will be left?