Last night I dreamt of my father. First there were dreams of
children and babies and houses and in one of these houses, my father sat in an
over-stuffed chair. He wore a blue plaid shirt. He was his older self, though not
frail; memory intact. He looked up at me; I was leaving (or was it he who
needed to leave?) He asked for a kiss. His voice was as clear as if I had been
awake, he alive.
Before he died, at the temporary hospice, I sat by his bed.
His death bed. The day prior, my brothers, sisters and mother had
gathered. My mother said, “This is what
he wanted. All of you together.” At
times, he thrashed and moaned. Was he in pain? Was he afraid? As a trained massage therapist, my instincts
dictated I gently massage his lower legs and feet with the intention of pulling
uncomfortable energy downward (and outward.) I offered him calm, perhaps
freedom. My mother remarked, “it’s helping.”
A golden soft light surrounded my father. Was it his spirit?
My energy mingling with his? Then I realized … get a grip, Eileen. It was light
emanating from the TV screen mounted on the wall behind us. (He would have
thought this funny; my mother, perhaps not so much.) His illuminated face made me think of him as
the Patron Saint of Television, the guy loved his TV and music. When he was 80
he purchased a Bose radio; that same year, my brother gave him an iPod for his birthday stocked
with his favorite music. Frank Sinatra, Harry James. Daddy asked Don if he could
take the iPod to heaven with him. This made me wonder if older people found it
easy to talk about death as if it were nothing at all; unlike most of
us who act as if we might go on forever,
or that death is something that happens to others.
Dreams come and go, but
last night, my dad visited me in a dream. Maybe it was a subconscious part of
my mind, or perhaps, a true visitation. But this morning as the mist hung over
the farm fields and sunlight filtered through the trees, I cried on my
drive to work. The dream stirred memories of the last times few times I saw my
father. Once, when I bent to kiss him goodbye at my brother’s house where he lived, he grabbed my hand, squeezed and held on
as if he might never let go.
On his last morning, I whispered in his ear. “You were
awesome, I love you.” But there was no
kiss. That would have been a final blessing, freeing him to go, and I didn’t
have the courage. But last night in my dream, I was given another chance.
Thanks Eileen. This is very special.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much!
ReplyDeleteIt's beautiful you have these fond memories of your Dad not only in your daily life, but in your dreams.
ReplyDeleteLoved this post, Eileen! Dream visitation from those we love are special, even more so when we get to spend time with those who are no longer physically here.
ReplyDelete