Sometimes I think I can see the future. Not the whole future, mind you, just snapshots, like I own a photo album whose pictures haven't been developed yet, and won't be for years to come.
I see my sister. She's with three boys, three sons, and they're sitting together in a living room playing a board game. They're all so beautiful; blondish brown hair, a family.
I see my uncle. He's an old man, flexing his bicep for a table of small children. They laugh, he laughs, and everyone flexes. It's a wonderful Thanksgiving.
I see my father. He's wrinkly and gray, happy, sitting in his reclining chair eating a slice of apple pie. There's a dog at his side, raggedy, a rescue.
And I see Leah. She has a girl on her lap, about four years old, with pale skin and freckles. The little girl is laughing, pointing at a band aid on her knee. Leah just smiles. She stares at the child with wide eyes, like she can't believe what's she is seeing, like she can't believe what she's made.
But who knows? Maybe I can't see the future. Maybe these pictures will never be taken. But I still keep closing my eyes and seeing them. All of them. Over and over, one by one, page after page of an unknown album. It's the reason I hate and love going to sleep.