I Dreamed that Father Died

I dreamed that Father died. I awoke from such a violent fit of crying and wailing and bereavement that I wondered at first if these hysterics had carried over into real life, worrying that Father might have heard me crying from across the hallway. But apparently not. The dream was just a very vivid one, shaking me to the marrow.

The dream began buoyantly and happily enough. Father was shopping for a yacht. His tastes had obviously grown beyond owning huge, premium-grade, pick-up trucks. True to form, he does not settle for a dinky sailboat, no more than he would care to be seen in a Toyota Corolla. He gets a yacht that an Arab oil sheik would be glad to sport in.

Father gets the yacht going and we are off sailing through the waters. It is as easy as using a joystick on a game-controller. In fact, it looks to me like we are sailing on the waters off of Liberty City in “Grand Theft Auto 4”. In any case, it looked and felt like we were living the high-life.

I cannot help thinking that this yachting was only a dream-exaggeration of the somewhat easy life that Father has afforded us, especially for himself, with his seemingly ceiling-free credit-line, spending money much more freely now as a retired man than when he was working and bringing home full-pay.

Back home, fresh from our little sailing trip, we are still glowing with the exploit. Mother was with us, too, not with a major presence, but I distinctly remember seeing her, as she smiled rather archly, perhaps more amused at us than anything. We are all happy, self-satisfied, feeling successful. Father is a real big man, having led us to another level of the good life, a level beyond that of big-screen televisions, DVRs, personal computers, and game consoles, the supremely successful breadwinner!

Father has to run off to take care of some business, maybe it even has to do with the yacht. As he is fast-walking away from us, he suddenly falls down and drops dead, just like that, in the blink of an eye.

The crying and misery is immediate and total. I am suffering primal grief. A whole lifestyle is gone with Father’s last breath, stilled with his credit-signing hand, that mojo he had for buying goods, comfort, and a little personal security, as I go from yachting to seeking out soup kitchens. Gone is this little leisurely life of books and dreams, as I revert to being an old, impecunious monkey-boy, left to the savage mercies of the white, moneyed world.

Oh, Mother, Father, if there was a lot of grief and anger and resentment at home, I will be missing you dearly on this day, when my misery will be complete and my tears will be real, and not just the stuff of dreams.

The last thing that I remember from the dream is picking out clothes for him to be dressed in for his funeral, selecting the burgundy slacks and dress shirt that I always thought most flattered him. In real life, I trust that other family members will take over and get a suit for him. At least he already has the diamond rings.

I Dreamed that Father Died

I dreamed that Father died. I awoke from such a violent fit of crying and wailing and bereavement that I wondered at first if these hysterics had carried over into real life, worrying that Father might have heard me crying from across the hallway. But apparently not. The dream was just a very vivid one, shaking me to the marrow.

The dream began buoyantly and happily enough. Father was shopping for a yacht. His tastes had obviously grown beyond owning huge, premium-grade, pick-up trucks. True to form, he does not settle for a dinky sailboat, no more than he would care to be seen in a Toyota Corolla. He gets a yacht that an Arab oil sheik would be glad to sport in.

Father gets the yacht going and we are off sailing through the waters. It is as easy as using a joystick on a game-controller. In fact, it looks to me like we are sailing on the waters off of Liberty City in “Grand Theft Auto 4”. In any case, it looked and felt like we were living the high-life.

I cannot help thinking that this yachting was only a dream-exaggeration of the somewhat easy life that Father has afforded us, especially for himself, with his seemingly ceiling-free credit-line, spending money much more freely now as a retired man than when he was working and bringing home full-pay.

Back home, fresh from our little sailing trip, we are still glowing with the exploit. Mother was with us, too, not with a major presence, but I distinctly remember seeing her, as she smiled rather archly, perhaps more amused at us than anything. We are all happy, self-satisfied, feeling successful. Father is a real big man, having led us to another level of the good life, a level beyond that of big-screen televisions, DVRs, personal computers, and game consoles, the supremely successful breadwinner!

Father has to run off to take care of some business, maybe it even has to do with the yacht. As he is fast-walking away from us, he suddenly falls down and drops dead, just like that, in the blink of an eye.

The crying and misery is immediate and total. I am suffering primal grief. A whole lifestyle is gone with Father’s last breath, stilled with his credit-signing hand, that mojo he had for buying goods, comfort, and a little personal security, as I go from yachting to seeking out soup kitchens. Gone is this little leisurely life of books and dreams, as I revert to being an old, impecunious monkey-boy, left to the savage mercies of the white, moneyed world.

Oh, Mother, Father, if there was a lot of grief and anger and resentment at home, I will be missing you dearly on this day, when my misery will be complete and my tears will be real, and not just the stuff of dreams.

The last thing that I remember from the dream is picking out clothes for him to be dressed in for his funeral, selecting the burgundy slacks and dress shirt that I always thought most flattered him. In real life, I trust that other family members will take over and get a suit for him. At least he already has the diamond rings.