The certainty of seeing your face
When I arrived in the hidden place
Was gone forever in a split-second
Head down on the table like
You were sleeping, an eternal rest
Great sadness in the center of my chest
Those days are gone now
Pictures in storybooks
Cemented in my mind’s eye
No need to cry any longer
Your spirit is forever with me
(Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels)
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’.