Grandpa's bucket.

I dreamt of grandpa.

Well, to be fair, I also dreamt of pirates taking over a cruiseboat using a cunning plan that only I saw through but people refused to believe when I warned them not to trust the pirates….

BUT. I dreamt of grandpa.

He was in the garage where he used to keep his car. He was making a good old-fashioned wooden sauna bucket. His hands shook, like always (he could barely use them for anything requiring any amount of precision), but somehow he was able to use a powertool.

He was carving it from birch or pine, I think, and I couldn’t see the tool, but I could see the power cord slinking into the wall of the garage. Which is absurd, because the garage is really an old, old stable… Hundreds of years old. One of these old red-painted ones made from wood when trees were still trees and not the skinny excuses they are these days. I digress. The point I am trying to make is that he was using electricity when there was none, using his hands to do something which was impossible for him, and creating something which I never knew him to create. Most of all, he was alive.

And somehow it felt completely natural. I watched him and I felt proud.

It was a good dream. But now, I’ve felt sad all day because I know every part of it was nothing but a dream. Completely impossible.