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.