She Said Goodbye at 3:12

My grandmother raised me for half my childhood, and her house rule — she was fierce about it — was that she never left without saying so. Even to the shops. 'Nobody vanishes in this family,' she used to say. 'We say where we're going.'

She had been ill that winter, but stable; the family had relaxed. I was five hundred kilometres away and had spoken to her on the Sunday. She complained about her neighbour's new fence and told me to eat something green.

Wednesday night I dreamed with a clarity that stood apart from ordinary dreaming the way a lit window stands apart from a wall. My childhood bedroom in her house. She was at the door in her garden coat, the brown one with the pockets that always held twine. She looked well — younger, unhurried. She said, 'I'm off now, love. Lock up behind me.' Then, mock-stern: 'Nobody vanishes. I'm saying where I'm going.' She patted the doorframe twice, which she did every night of my childhood, and I woke to my phone ringing.