The images that come in dreams are not random. There was nothing random about my father coming to me—in a dream—to tell me how sad he is that a friend has died.
The image of my father. Why then? Why not then? Why not when...
The last time I saw my father was not the last time, but it was the last time I cried. The last time I cried—for my father—I was driving away from him. I was driven away from him.
Yet, I cried.
I embraced my grieving father in that dream more than I ever was able to—more than I ever wanted to—in so-called waking life. Not more so. More real.
That was the only time in our lives that I comforted him, and it was after he had been long dead. I wept as I held him. He wept as I held him. It was the only time—it was a dream. What does it mean to weep together? I never knew him in that way.
He wasn't there that time. Or the other. He wasn't there when I needed him. He wasn't there afterwards, or again, nor even too late. He just wasn't.
As we wept—my father and I—I wondered if it was for his friend, after all. I wondered if it was for him. I wonder if it was for me.
Who died?
Can someone be long dead? Isn't dead just dead. Do the dead count time? I do.
Too late for whom?
I cannot fathom.
