"Contrary to what most people think," Grandma said, "dreams aren't mere dreams. They're memories of our past lives. Sometimes of the lives yet to come." My head was on her lap.
We were enjoying the cool spring breeze coming through the windows of my room.
"I've never had any interesting dreams," I said, pouting. "My lives must be boring."
"Silly, I'm not talking about those dreams. I'm talking about the ones you don't remember when you wake up."
"Oh, Gran," I said, looking up at her kind face, "what does it matter then?"
"It matters," she said, a faraway look on her face, "because sometimes, some of us end up remembering somethings."
Gran's hand running through my hair was making me sleepy. Just before my mind drifted off to la-la land, I remembered that I had never actually met her since she died long before I was even born.