Longing

The passing of my old man fairly well wrecked me for half-a-year. At the time I felt as if I were the only one in my immediate family that cared about his death.

And worse still, I had not yet learned how to talk about what it was I was feeling. Many nights and early mornings I found myself awake thinking about Dad.

Writing was my only outlet.

Jolted awake, I laid there in the stillness of the moon glow soaked room and listened to my bride breath. As I listened and she breathed, I reflected on the dream that caused me wake up.

It left me bewildered at the very least. Why had Dad had returned to me?

 I could see his shadow and then the outline of his body as he stood partly hidden from sight.

“Damn it,” I had said in my dream.

The storage shed was a mess and it had caused me anger. And I knew I would have to clean it up.

Then I looked up from the mess.

At first I didn’t notice the old man standing some twenty feet from me. I was too busy reacting in disgust to the precarious and disorderly stacking of filing boxes that seemed haphazardly strewn about the floor and along the wall.

At first he was just a silhouette, looming in back of the shed, saying nothing — doing nothing.  Dad jus’ stood there and I couldn’t speak; the surprise was so over whelming.

Mary rolled over onto her right side facing away from me. And continued to I lay there — quietly listening to her breathing as it grew ever increasingly rhythmic.

I reflected back on the dream and how it’s reality work me from a sound sleep, all the while wondering, “What does it mean?”

Laying there, a tear silently traced a salty line from the corner of my eye to the pillow that cradled my head. I realized Dad was still dead and it was only a dream.

I closed my eyes and slowly drifted back into sleep all the while thinking, “I sure do miss you, Dad.”