My Native Tongue (pt 1 of 3)

My Native Tongue

The night my Grandpa Ed passed away, he came to me in a dream. The dream was peculiar, vivid in a way I had never experienced. I was 10 years old. Our big, brand new house was on fire, and it was pouring rain outside. I ran downstairs from my bedroom into the kitchen. There, my sisters and Mom were playing Yahtzee, laughing loudly and gesturing at each other. They were immersed in the game.

I shouted at them: The house is on fire! We have to get out! The house is on fire!

And they didn’t budge.

They didn’t turn their heads.

I kept yelling. Still, no movement.

It was as if I wasn’t there.

So, I saved myself – I ran outside, onto the back deck, down the stairs and onto the lawn. There, on the side of the yard, right where I had tried to build a fort with my best friend, Penny, was my Grandpa. Clad in a raincoat and holding an umbrella, he said to me, They can’t hear you.

He was calm, shaking his head.

Frantic, I told him that they were going to die in there, that I had to save them.

We have to save them. Help me!

He shook his head, his face shriveled and stoic, and said again,

They can’t hear you. They will never be able to hear you.

And then, They don’t speak the same language.

The dream has stuck with me to this day.

Back then, I had no idea what that meant. I was a child.

But it resonated somewhere deep inside. I recognized it as truth.

Today, I understand. It is the truth. I don’t speak the same language. I was born an empath.