Dad

I had a dream about my Dad last night. It took place in a gorgeous valley, nestled within a hilltop resort that looked out over the incredible vista. Rugged west coast mountains, some dusted with snow, arched up into the blue high above us. As you travelled down their slopes your feet would land in meadows that drew you to small lakes. Puffs of white clouds hung above, birds flew, families played. A heavenly scene.

My Dad was walking along the edge of a modest pool set in the plateau that hosted what seemed to be the communal area for guests. Picnic tables peppered with plates and glasses, small dogs were playing with children, and there were balloons and barbecues. He was dressed as you see him in this photograph, all except for the reading glasses that he needed later in life before his eyesight began to wane. I believe this was meant to represent that we were in his final years. No more sunglasses. No need of them now since he was rarely able to see the sun.

As people enjoyed the day all around him he drew quietly closer to the water, step by step moving towards the shallower end of the pool. I watched him from the other side but he seemed to be unaware of my presence. He was very much lost in his own world, staring down at the cool calm, at the ripples generated on the surface by the gentle spring breeze. Then, without a word, he jumped in, feet first, arms at his side, his shoed feet gently landing on the bottom like an astronauts first touch on the moon. He pressed his back against the underwater wall and his head hung slightly downward, a reflection of the immense sadness and emotion I feel the water was meant to represent.

A few people turned, slightly concerned, watching for a moment before returning to their holiday activities. I stood and waited. I could see the hurt welling within him. His body, his clothing, his expression clear even though he was submerged. His shoulders curled forward slightly and I watched his face change into that cringe that comes the moment before the tears fall. He turned around, not wanting any witnesses to his suffering, crying as he faced the pool wall, completely cocooned in the depths of his pain.

I suddenly found myself in the water, wading towards him. I was in a black bathing suit, the colour perhaps representing what was to come, the fact that I was wearing it representing that I was somehow prepared for it. I finally reached him, gently pressed my hands onto his shoulders and for the briefest of moments we seemed to be buoyed in unison by our unspoken bond. And then the moment was over. I was once again standing poolside, bone dry in normal clothes, and my Dad was gone. The scene around me remained the same. People laughing, sharing life, sharing love, while puffy white clouds still lingered in the sky.

I miss him, yes. I also miss something else which may sound strange. It took me aback the first time it happened, and has taken me aback many times since – I miss the clarity of pain.

There are so many things in our lives that lack it. So often people and places seem to grind against one another. There is so much subjectivity, so much stress or struggle. Death is different. It has a sharp edge. It's not subjective, it's definitive. It just is. We may all have different ways of trying to grasp it, through prayer or myth, through ritual or belief. aUltimately, there is no interpretation needed. Those that we love are gone. Our arms may extend to meet them but our hands will never again reach the tops of their shoulders. The chapter that was our time together has been written and their physical story has come to an end.

I remember the day he died. I was at work when I received the news and my journey home was a hazy and convoluted one. I know the city I live in like the back of my hand yet, I had no idea which direction would lead me home. When I finally landed in my living room I dropped to my knees and wept for what felt like hours. I distinctly remember the sharp pain of death. It was so clear, like nothing else I had ever known. I long for that texture almost as much as I long to reach out and press my palms into my Dad's shoulders once more.


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