It can be hard to believe that anything happens after we die. At least, anything meaningful. It can be hard to believe that any of us, any part of us, linger after the only carrier of our Self has been placed, with finality, out of commission. For those of us raised with religions we grew out of, hanging onto any kind of faith in a beyond feels sticky.

Last night, I dreamed I was dancing with my grandmother in her kitchen. The one we left behind, when the feet of her grandchildren got too large for her tiny hallways. We waited as long as we could, waited until my grandfather died while I was dreaming of him as Johnny Cash at a summer camp, and then we exploded. The new house has never been my home. It’s a storage unit, one which seems to be fit to burst at the seams with loneliness or unused relics of another life.

I danced with my grandmother in her kitchen. She was heating a cup of coffee in the microwave over the stove, and I was proud to be tall enough to reach it for her on my tiptoes. As the coffee went around and around, she stood behind me and led me in a dance my earthly body has yet to master. She had been a square dancer, and a damn good one alongside my grandfather and their best friends, but this dance moved to a Latin beat I’d never seen her move in her own earthly body.

I’d like to think that Heaven, whatever it is for or to the rest of us, is a dance floor for her. At least some of the time. I’d like to believe she’s dancing with a host of new friends, who also loved moving their earthly bodies more than anything. Their celestial bodies must be learning from each other. Can you imagine? Square tango, Lindynatyam, whirling waltz, any movement we make in joy on Earth, combining and amplifying beyond human comprehension somewhere beyond.

She visits me in the birds when I’m awake, and always with a hug when my eyes are closed. I’ve learned to be thankful for every dream, especially the ones that bridge the distance between MeeMee and me.