I told Sheryl this morning that my dreams last night were filled with people who were gone. I talked to my Grandpa O’Neill, my mom’s dad, a bunch at some sort of bingo thing in the basement of a church. Pop — that’s what we called my dad’s dad — was walking on a street. My father-in-law, Howard, handed me a newspaper at some sort of cabin were were in. And my dad was in his policeman’s uniform.
I’m not going to read anything into those dreams. They were very nice and comforting, not scary or some premonition. In fact, in the last couple of years I’ve had a lot of dreams about my dad. Funny thing is that he’s been dead for over 20 years. I have only a few pictures of him, mostly when he was sick toward his last days. But when I dream of him, he’s robust, smiley, and probably about my age now. If that were the case, I’d be 12 or so, however I’m an adult and so is he. We don’t talk much, he’s just there.
Sometimes that’s good enough for a dad. They’re always there even when they’re not. That works for me this Father’s Day.
