Last night, in a dream, I saw my father again. This is not to say I dreamed of him, which I do quite frequently. Usually I dream that he is still alive, his features no longer blurred by time. I can see the fine white childhood scar etched into his forehead, the square chiseled planes of his face, the brown hairs on the knuckles of his strong, beautiful hands. There is no action in this type of dream. It is more like a silent close up, a still shot, causing me to feel guilty when I awaken because I had forgotten these details.
Sometimes he does not know me in my dreams. I run into him on a crowded city street and greet him joyfully, but he tells me there must be some mistake and coldly leaves me. Or else I dream dark dirty dreams of his ghastly dead body, filled with worms and wet decay, and I awaken sobbing, convulsed with horror.
But in the dream last night I went to him, to a crimson gold meadow where sickness and dying have never existed, where the trees are lush and plentiful, and the sunlight clearer than any I have ever seen on this earth. He was not the mature father I remember but a bouyant young man, and I was a child, and he lifted me up in the warm fresh breeze, and we knew that we had been separated for a very long time. We cried with joy together, and when I awakened, the tears still streaming from my eyes, I could still smell that sweet green air, and I knew that I had not just dreamed of him but spent a time with him outside of time, in the place where dreams are made.