• (slip away/by) (of time) elapse
A great part of me lives in fear of the "slip away." As I've grown older, dreams of my dad are less frequent and while I've been told that dead people don't speak in dreams, this is the first dream where I think he may have spoken. Or this could very well be me attaching words to him. Already, I remember less of last night's dream than I did this morning, but I was at a dinner with my mom side's family and my dad was at the table. My mom was glowing of happiness and my dad was his saintly self. There was banter and there were laughs. I remember feeling that I discovered a new side to him-the happiness I felt in that moment observing him across the dinner table is ineffable. He then left early and I followed him out to the parking lot and he got into his forest green Ford Explorer. It's been a long while since I've had a dream about him, but it felt nice to feel again a touch of familiarity. These dreams of him have become memories with him. Every date I perceive seems to be in relation to 2006 when I was a young girl 9 years old. Now, I am 18, and I deal with coming to know that going half of my life without my dad quite plainly remains difficult. There are far less memories than my nine year old self would've ever imagined.
Shortly after his death, in a rare moment that my mom and I shared about my dad with his death being so recent, we both had a dream about him. With very similar themes, mine had a timer clock that was running down time with a countdown as my dad and I simultaneously or not searched for each other throughout the lower part of my elementary school. It was either him looking for me before the time ran out or me looking for him.
Another dream--With a recurring theme of search, I sat a few rows behind my dad in a theatre and while the performance was going on, I meant to say things to him once I was given the chance, eager to see my long lost dad in my dream. But by the time the performance ended, he had already disappeared.
In a landscape I had never seen before, there sat a picturesque cabin in the middle of a snowy mountain and I met my dad outside where again of course he eventually disappeared.
I do not know how I feel about an afterlife and I will never know the truth, faithful or not faithful.
I do know what these dreams mean to me and what they would mean to him-- the best man I will ever know.
This photo from the bbq that Father Keenan hosted today reminded me of Matisse's "Tea in the Garden," which in turn reminded me of my first exposure to Matisse ever (without ever thinking beyond what to me was a simple painting of goldfish). This hung up in our bathroom first in 6th street's black tiled checkered bathroom and then in the bathroom we shared on Ingraham.
I strive to live in awe of detail because these make up memories, which I cherish now that my dad is gone and has been gone for half of my life. This half will only continue to grow and my lack of detail will only grow-- may be linearly, may be exponentially. There is no way of knowing and I have to be better at being okay with that.
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