I dreamed about my dad last night.
It was the second time I’ve dreamed about him. The first
time - for lack of desire to describe the whole, awful thing - I wouldn’t classify as a
dream but a nightmare that I’m sure was my mind’s way of processing my own
sense of helplessness.
Last night’s dream, however, would normally be quickly forgotten in the routine of morning – just one of those mundane
dreams that could easily be a memory of any given Tuesday. The only difference
is that my dad happened to be in it.
Perhaps that’s why I cried when I woke up and when I was
alone in my classroom and now as I write this. It was so natural for my dad to be part of my mundane, my
everyday, so when I woke up and had to remember that’s not true – that it’s no
longer my normal, I felt his absence, my loss, so acutely today.
Grief is funny that way. It reminds me of a stereo with
broken speakers that cause the sound to fade in and out. Some days, the sound is distant, distant enough to allow me
to focus on other things. It’s still in the background, playing its song, an unwelcomed
soundtrack to life, but I can push it aside a little.
Some days, like today, the sound is full and robust and
demands to be heard, demands an audience.
