Grief in Stereo

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.