My grandmother on my father's side of the family lived her entire life in one house. She was slow and stupid and fat and looked at me with empty dullard eyes. She wore a pink button-up sweater that was forever unwashed. Her thining grey hair must have hated her laziness. She died perhaps five years ago. I was last in her house as a child.
But I was an adult. And my friends were there with me. We were in her house. She was there. I was looking after her, too. And her house. And my mother. And my mother's mother.
And I was a wreck, crying and bawling. I realized in the dream that I couldn't do it anymore. It was slowly killing me. All my friends were there, they were trying to help. They couldn't. Nobody could. I was dying.