My Dream-Father (flash fiction)

Most times, my dreams aren’t profound, nor do they make much sense. Dream-logic, I’m told, never does. But this dream felt different. My father appeared on the football field of my youth. In life, he was a short man. But in this dream, he towered over me.

He wore denim dream-jeans, faded blue, and ripped at the knees. He smoked a giant dream-cigarette, and the smoke billowed like it was from a power plant. His dream-muscles were large and imposing, like Zeus’.

Finally, he spoke, and his voice rumbled like thunder. The gravely ground trembled with his words. “Son,” my dream-father said. “I never got a chance to tell you while I was alive, but I’m proud of you.”

Tears flowed from his massive dream-face, and the salty water swept me up. The tear-water felt so good, like cooling springs, and the sun shone brilliant rays of light that filled my soul with the most perfect peace I’ve ever known.

(Photo by Yohann Lc on Unsplash)

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