My father has been dead for over five months, surprisingly close to the six that mark half a whole year. Nothing, and everything has changed in that time. Nothing in so far as I still am at the same job, still in the same apartment, still living essentially the same life, except he's not in it. On the other hand, his entire condo has been emptied, and freshened up. The furniture, with a few exceptions, is gone. The place is up for sale now. But though it looks the same, there are things in the works that will complete the turn of the page, begun as if a wind had blown, but completed by my hand.
I am not sure how this is related, or if it is. But the other day as I walked down the aisle of my church before Mass, a woman who had known my father, had driven him home sometimes from a class he attended on Thursdays asked me how I was doing.
"You know, I miss him, but I'm doing good." My father was 90 and it almost seems ungrateful to be complaining how I lost him when he had as long a life as he did and I had him 54 years of mine.
"Do you dream about him?" I wanted to say, yes, but truth is, I haven't. I had one dream he was in before he died that I am guessing was an unconscious premonition, except for the part that involved Pierce Brosnan (yes, Pierce and my father were in the same dream, make whatever Freudian conclusions you will!). But it was before any crisis. I have felt his presence, I think. Could be wishful thinking, though. And then there have been a couple of events, the near fire in dad's refrigerator averted because I decided to stay over, my wallet that was nearly lost, should have been lost, but ended up not getting lost on Waikiki beach. I could have sworn he was looking after me. Could have been coincidence though. A dream seems like it would be a more direct contact. People tell me they dream about loved ones all the time. I have had three people die that I cared most particularly about (meaning I have cared about others but the death of these folks was, well, life changing, so maybe there is a connection to my introduction), my father, my mother, so long ago that sometimes I forget how much of a change her death effected in my life, and the man who had been my therapist, but after the termination of my therapy, became, along with his family, a friend. This latter association with the attendant aspects of how it came about, the dicey issues of ethical boundaries (is a continuing relationship with a former client ever tenable, even if it is not forbidden? ), transference, countertransference, is a story unto itself but I will save that for another time, perhaps never, who knows. The crux, though, is that my mother, dead 30 plus years, I have dreamed of only once and in the dream she had aged, gracefully, and smiled at me ever so briefly in a way I had never seen in life. Bill, my erstwhile therapist, appeared twice, each time offering the lessons of the mentor and caring soul he was to most anyone (as I have come to learn) whose path he crossed. In the dream, as in life, I heard him saying, knowingly, "Grist for the mill." Everything that happens in life gets ground up and processed within us, if we are lucky, teaches us things that better enable us for our relationships. Make it possible for us to love, and be loved. But I don't exactly kick out dreams of family and friends with any regularity.
And not at all so far with dad, has there been a dream. I'm not pushing it, though, because even the not dreaming of him is grist for that mill. And change is indeed happening, especially when I least notice it.
I can see our time is up. . .
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