In my dream last night, I was in an attic–mine?–with my father, and we were going through things, picking up things, and looking at them, and talking, I think, and then, I looked at him, and went to him, and hugged him, hugged him so tight, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m trying to carry this–”
And then I woke, and remembered he was dead, dead now for fourteen months–and sad again, and grateful, to have seen him, to have held him, one more time–and I think, how lucky I am, that in these dreams, these dreams I have of him, I always remember to go to him, to hold him–
And I’ve been thinking lately about how after he died, my mother moved, my brother moved, I moved–all of us are in different places, but, like him, we are all not where we were–
I think about him, and how, if he were a ghost, would he be able to find us?
I know where he is, where his body lies, in a field, thirty miles to the north and east of where I sit, typing these words.
I love you, old man. I love you.