I wake up long before my alarm, my bladder is in charge these days. I don’t get up right away. Instead I lay in bed and ruminate about those things that are large and looming in the darkness and somehow fade away in the light of day. Shuffling to the bathroom I wonder, why are the little things so big at night?
Back in bed I close my eyes, nagging thoughts persist. Should I postpone my springtime trip to Italy? Long stretches of solo travel don’t excite me this time around. Go away thoughts . . . sleep.
And then I have an idea . . .
I’ll ask my dad to join me on my trip. We have excellent travel rapport, he taught me how to travel. Why hadn’t this occurred to before? It doesn’t matter, it’s a great idea. He can visit his family and help me with my Italian. I can already hear him correcting my pronunciation and conjugation. I can picture his upward gaze, as he pulls information from his mental files and thoughtfully explains a piece of ancient history. I can see him in his brown walking sandals leading the way on cobblestone paths. I drift off, content, with a plan to call him in the morning.
Sunlight wakes me this time, an hour of sleep feels like ten. Sure that I have overslept and wondering why my alarm didn’t rouse me I reach for my phone to check the time, only 7:00am. With time to spare, I give in to a bad habit and peruse social media. A friend has posted birthday wishes to her young daughter, January 31, a day to celebrate. I think of my Dad, remembering his birthday is tomorrow, he would have been eighty-one.
Immediately this morning’s dream and its details flood my consciousness. It was so damn real. An impossible plan, my dad is gone, a dozen years have passed. But my soul knows differently. It orchestrates my dreams to include the longing of my heart . . . to see my dad, to hear his wisdom, to hold his hand and walk beside him.
Happy Birthday Dad . . . I love you and miss you every day.
Thank you for visiting my dreams.