Once in a while

Once in a while, I get the urge to write something serious. Usually, I do it when I wake up from a dream. I type furiously without stopping to muse over my diction or even make proper paragraphs. Then I save it, slam the laptop shut, and never look at it again.

Over the last two years, I’ve started to look over these “something serious” writings. It’s still hard, but once in a while I’ll read something I wrote in a frenzy, make a few corrections, and put it away again.

Rarely have I showed these writings to anyone. Maybe never. But today, I want to share it. It’s been a few years, I think I can broach the subject matter, so I’m posting something small and serious that I just wrote.

Last night I cried in my dream

Last night, I cried in my dream. I cried when I realized it was a dream.

Everything made sense. I was in an office – my new office – going over work with colleagues who were just getting to know me. As we huddled around one computer screen he walked by, sharp dressed as always. We felt proud that he was stopping to look at what we were doing.  I was happy that he was there to hear the witty remark I was about to make.

I said my funny thing. The others laughed. And he backed me up, adding his signature humor to the conversation.

I looked at him, so pleased that we could share this joke together. I looked at him with my glowing happiness, so pleased that we could stand in this sunlit room together, chat together.

Then, I saw that it was a dream. I saw that it couldn’t be. Panicked, I seized his hand, holding it tightly in both my hands, and rushed the words out before they drowned in the oncoming sobs,

“Daddy, I miss you so much.”

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3 thoughts on “Once in a while

  1. Your words resonate so much with me.
    I hand-write early ‘morning pages’ in exercise books which, when full, get stored in the attic before being pulled down, re-read and then consigned the flames of an evening bonfire. They are snapshots of how I feel on waking and they often help me solve the riddles of my life.
    My father was killed in a motorbike accident, when I was only four and I’ve had to borrow other people’s memories of him, have no concept of the love I’ve been told he had for me. This was a loss I carried deep within my heart for more than half a century.
    A year or so ago, I dreamt that my mother, now also dead, was introducing him to the adult me, with pride. And I felt such overwhelming love from them both that it sustained me when I awoke.
    I, too, wrote about that dream immediately, cathartic tears washing away the melancholy that had always shrouded me.
    So thank you, Q, for reminding me of that.

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