PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I've had dreams about my father, probably once a week, for the past month or so. He's always alive, and it's as though nothing ever happened. Last night was another one, and it was a bizarre scenario - he was loading up an old station wagon to leave. The thing was packed full. He was also absconding with the neighbor's cat, because he felt it was our cat, since we cared for it, fed it, and it lived in our house. (This has no rooting in reality, but it made for some anxious moments in the dream, as the neighbor got really, really pissed.) I remember that he was planning to leave for ten years, and I went over to him, and leaned my head on his, and felt "our" connection, and I asked him if he'd consider coming back in a year, instead of ten.

I didn't get my answer, just the memory and sensation and feeling of the love and bond we always had together. Those moments in my dreams are so pure and true, that in the waking hours, their memory becomes another part of the melancholy, the bittersweet, the dichotomy between reality and desire. It's as if I still have cells within me that haven't been educated or informed that he's dead. They gather and weave a story so simple and touching and emotionally connected and it gives me such an enormous sense of peace in my dreams. The next day, that peace slowly becomes stained with the knowledge that it was, in fact, only a dream, and those cells must go through the education and acceptance process.

As hard as it is the next day, I love those fleeting moments of connection....

Labels: the next year