The first time I dreamt of my father
Two years of remembering.
The first time I dreamt of my father, I went from blissfully dreaming to hyper aware that this was the first time I was seeing him again—walking, talking, and bringing bags out of the car and onto the busy street like any other vacation our family has had.
I became painstakingly aware that the dad who’s standing right in front of me is my dad standing in front of me. My dad who I haven’t seen in a long time. My dad whom I never even got to hug before he died.
When you try to remember a dream, the longer that time passes, the harder it is to recall all the minute details. But I remember hugging him. I hugged him so tight, aware of my physical body in slumber as my subconscious mind conjured up this scene, aware also of the weight of my sorrow pushing down on my chest.
“I love you, dad. I missed you so much,” I whispered.
The first time I dreamt of my father was on a trip to South Australia with my mother. It was her first time to fly to Australia without him. We were sleeping in the same room, on separate beds, a few steps away from the beach.
When I woke up, I told my mum that I dreamt of him. She smiled and said, she dreamt of him, too.
The following night, as I lay in bed waiting for sleep, I silently prayed to see him again.
It’s my dad’s second year death anniversary today. I feel his memories sometimes slipping away, muddled by the day-to-day goings on of life and the painful by-product of distance. It reminds me to write constantly to keep my memories of him alive and intact.
Once I read that the people who have gone before us lives on through us. It’s in the way we walk and talk and perceive the world. It’s in our art and what we produce. How we live our lives is an homage to who they have been to us. We are how they remain in the world.
My dad during the last Christmas family trip we took before I moved overseas.