Eight Months

The night before the eight-month anniversary of my dad's death, I had the first in what's become a string of somewhat bizarre dreams about him. I haven't decided yet if these dreams are better or worse than never seeing him.

I dreamt that I was out in the hot sun on this huge expanse of green lawn. There was a large white tent in the middle of the grass and tables of food and white chairs in long rows stretching on and on and on. Everywhere I looked people were dressed like they were at a wedding that just didn't have a bride and groom. The only exception was my dad who was ready for a backyard barbecue in these green sweatpants and a blue polo shirt and grass-stained sneakers he actually owned and wore.

In the dream, I kept trying to introduce him to people—family friends I only see twice a year, friends I don’t talk to anymore, people who don’t really exist—and at every introduction he would say hello and then rush off like he couldn’t be bothered to stop and talk. And I got more and more annoyed and embarrassed every time he walked away. I kept on apologizing to person after person—I couldn't figure out why he was being so rude.

It wasn’t until I woke up that I remembered he was dead and it suddenly made sense that he didn't want to get to know people he’d never have the chance to talk to again.

#deaddad #grief