Three nights ago, I dreamed about my father.
It was — in this dream — the end of the week. I was relaxed, as I hadn’t been for some time. The best way I can find to describe the feeling is this: when you watch a typical serial tv show, one without a continous narrative, you’re meant to have a sense at the end of each show that everything is wrapped up. That whatever crisis or chaos has defined the recent past has been resolved, and everything is back to normal. I was walking around the land outside my parents’ house, feeling at ease.
I saw my dad wandering around out there, and stopped to talk to him for a bit. And I felt a strong kinship, a sense of comfort in his company. We talked about nothing particularly important: when I’d be leaving, whether I wanted his old jacket; the usual meandering focus of dreams.
I woke up thinking, “I’m still going to have dreams like this when he’s gone.”
I’ve been particularly struck by my parents’ mortality lately. I’ve only recently really become conscious of their aging. My dad has always spent a lot of time outside, doing work on the land, and I think he’s just starting to get to the age where that’s a little more difficult. Perhaps in ten years he won’t do so any more.
I worry about what it will be like when my parents’ generation is gone. I’ve always had them there, had that whole generation, and there’s a perspective among my elders that I’ve always been able to depend on. And a supportive dynamic between myself and my parents that has meant a great deal to me over the years. I will miss that when it’s gone, and I’m particuarly not looking forward to trying to handle the existential crisis of old age with only my peers and the younger generations to turn to for support.
And I will really miss my dad.
