Father’s Day

My father was 51 when he died.

In the year after his death, he appeared to me regularly in vivid dreams. But one day he stopped appearing; later I stopped dreaming all together.

A few weeks ago, after nearly twenty years, he reappeared in a dream:

I was on a bus. Something like a school bus. My father, my brother, me.

I was sitting next to my father — his younger, healthier self. My brother was in the seat in front of us.

My father and I were arguing about something. I’m not sure what. I was getting more and more frustrated. I couldn’t get him to understand or agree with me.

Finally, exasperated, I got up. I moved several seats ahead and sat staring out the window at a field that stretched on forever.

The bus rolled on and on.

After a while my father moved forward, sat down beside me, put his hand on my shoulder. We looked each other in the eye, but neither said a word.

We rode on together, through the fields, in silence.

And I, still dreaming, found comfort in that.