Wonderful Dream of my Dead Hungarian Grandparents.

Last month the night before my art school grades were due, I had a vivid dream of my dead Hungarian grandparents.

Me and my dad were driving around this hillside on which was built a tall retirement complex, and we turn right onto this steep uphill driveway, and the next thing you know we're going into the entry of this tall, narrow, five-story townhouse-like structure where my grandparents live.

In the half-basement is the bedroom, it's dim and the lights are off, and this loose white rug is positioned on the tile right when you get off the stairs, and my dad starts bitching about how his father never thinks of anyone else, that his mom could easily slip on that, and he bends down to pick it up and then goes and places it under the bed and out-of-the-way where my grandfather can't find it, so that he can't put it out again and my grandmother won't slip on it.

Somehow, though the house is narrow, there's 2 sets of stairs, one on each side of the room, and they intersect on a small mezzanine level above the first floor, where there's a floor-to-ceiling almost-dormer like window on each side that extends outward almost like the plastic shell containing an action figure toy that you buy in the story, and on the left there's an armchair and a table in front of it, and I know that my grandparents sit there sometimes and read and look out into the courtyard at the retirement complex buildings towering around and above them.

On the next floor is a very small kitchen, and as we walk in, my grandfather is taking something out of the chest-level built-in oven and my grandmother has to scoot out of the way.

Both are remarkably spry, and act like several decades younger than the last time that I saw them.

Both look very happy, and my grandmother doesn't have Alzheimer's at all.

I wake up feeling like I just saw them again in person, and am happy.