Yesterday was the anniversary of my father’s death in 2007, nineteen years ago.
The story below is something I wrote on the morning of 3/29/08, recording a dream I had the previous night.
Last night I had the following dream. Flowing out of some previous dream sequence, which I don’t remember, I found myself riding my old Yamaha 250 down Kingwood Drive, headed westward out of the subdivision. There was other traffic around me. It was at night, and there was the usual dim pallor created by passing streetlights, and above the hazy bubbles of light, the black darkness.
Riding along I noticed to my right, a platform about ear-level – it was the bed of a flat-bed truck. I was not aware of who was driving, just the platform immediately before my eyes to the right. The platform held a hospital bed with my dad sleeping in it, head raised in the adjustable bed, just like my last hazy dream-like encounter with him in the hospital. He was out in the open air, and we both drove along together in the wind and motor noise. My motorcycle was right next to him, and I was surprised and excited to see him.
Preventing him from rolling out was a foot-high pane of Plexiglas along the side of the platform. He was lying there, head slumped sideways, mouth open, either asleep or, more likely, in a fog of sedation. He was in a white gown and all white sheets, and he was unshaven, and his hair was tousled as it was when he had been in the hospital for several days.
When I saw him, I was very happy and excited. I felt like a little boy again and tried to get his attention: “Dad! Hey Dad! Dad!” I was able to get right next to the platform and reach over the Plexiglas to touch his hair. I wanted to rouse him enough to say Hi. He looked up at me through the plastic pane, and his eyes showed recognition, and he reached over with one of his unmistakable hands, which had an i.v. dangling along with it, and he gently held my four fingers for a moment before they slipped away and the truck drove on ahead, and he was taken away from me.
