image by navila kalam
last night my father was talking to me in my dream.
he had the richest most melodic voice.
he still does.
he took care with his words as he spoke.
to be sure that they rose and fell right where they needed to.
that the pitch matched the pace.
he was sure to draw you in, even as you longed to leave.
occasionally he'd talk about something you were interested in.
mostly, he talked.
about this and that.
conspiracies and theories and civilization and books.
music. mostly what he couldn't stand.
something he read about asafoetida.
and everything you'd ever want to know about it.
and endlessly about his pack.
always his gear.
i think the beauty of the dead is the ability to cast your gaze with a softened beam. you can put away the armor, the laser, the 10 foot pole. you don't have to think about the bad stuff or the hurt. you don't have to unless you want to. and mostly, i don't.
the beauty of the dead is when they come to you in your dreams they are their dream selves. and whether they were their dream selves ever while living, it doesn't matter. you have them now as you want them to be. forever and ever. they are cast in the dreaming bronze of the sepia-toned epilogue. the rewrite gone perfectly.
when we dream about the living the possibilities are endless. and frankly, frightening. who wants possibilities and endless? especially when you know what one is capable of. especially then.
no. not me. give me the father i loved and the one i liked. roll them into the one i saw in real living life, but not nearly enough, always longing for more. of that. of that father.
i used to sit on my father's lap. when we'd be out at a holiday gathering or friend's house or a party. and it would grow late and i would grow tired and i would plant myself on his lap. and i would lean my head against his chest and listen to the low rumble of his voice. and i would close my eyes and i would soften and i would sink. i would lower my shoulders from their space by my ears, and i would let down my guard. and i would be in the safest place in the world. the softest place. the dream place on my earth, always longing for more. of that. of that feeling.
i miss my father. terribly. and i wish that he didn't die. but i would be lying if i said i didn't like the fact that when he visits me now it's mostly peaceful. filled with the good and the safe the charming and the familiar. the safe familiar. i don't like that he died, but i like that he is where he is. i like that i am mostly no longer afraid.
that we are both safe.
that he has let down his guard, too.
anyhow, this installment of your moment(s) of zen have nothing to do with my father and me. and it's a song and a band i am sure he would have nothing less than a 45 minute perfectly delivered eye rolling (me) lecture on its horrible awfulness (though he would use a much, much better group of words strung together in stinging phrase) BUT, it was in my dream. in the background. seems fitting. i guess. so. here you go.