Remembering Dad

I dreamed you were nearly dead with several layers of skin gone. Gross!  Quite the contrast from the meticulously dressed man I knew.

I remember your essence. The way I felt when you were here.  Not the uncomfortable broken parts, but the parts that were love. The comfort that comes with knowing you loved me and I love you.  I remember your smell, the mix of hard work and airplane engine grease and cigarettes. The gentle fragrance of ‘Dad’s home from work’. The sense of security.  Comfort.  Peace.

But in my dream, death was near.  So I went to get the gurney.  Not to hurry death or run away from it, but to linger in the remembered essence of you.  When I returned, you were sitting up.  I saw you take a breath.  Then you gave me that sideways glance and smirk that means “I made a mistake and I’m slightly embarrassed, I’m staying after all.”

Thanks for the visit Dad.  I love you and miss you.

Next time keep your skin on.

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