It’s been nearly a year and my dreams have changed as time has passes.
At first, I used to dream that my Dad came home. More often than not he showed up at home and was mad at us for getting rid of his stuff. One time we dug him up from his grave and brought home Zombie Daddy, but I had my Dad at home with us. I woke up confused, hoping that it was real and he wasn’t gone.
Then one day I dreamt that Dad came to me at home, and Mom couldn’t see him, and he told me not to worry about him, that he was okay. And it was sometime after that I realized I had stopped mourning for him, he was in a better place. And I woke up at peace and I didn’t dream for several months.
Now I mourn for me and George. My father was a wonderful man. The best father I could have asked for. And now I dream that I’m with him, just at home, or taking him on vacations we never got to go on to cities he never got to see and am begging him not to die. And I wake up crying.
It’s been a year, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. I’ve learned it never will. Some days it doesn’t seem real, some days my heart all over again, but it’s just as fresh as last March, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.