Sometimes I dream about my dad
I have many dreams, but few leave a mark on my memory.
Nightmares are usually easier to remember, maybe because of the desperation and fear that wakes me and continue to haunt me while I’m awake.
That’s why I never remember when I dream about my dad.
All that remains of my dreams are fragments and the vague sensation of his presence.
I wake up thinking he’s still here, a remnant of my illusions and then, suddenly, reality hits me.
It will soon be ten years. Soon I’ll have lived longer without him than with him.
Sometimes it’s as if he never left, other times, it’s as if he had gone on a long trip and returned.
Like the trips he used to take to the countryside to visit family in Crato.
Grief is a funny thing; a part of me still expects him to come back. Better also. Even with few memories, I know the father in my dreams is better, kinder.
Who knows? Maybe he’s paying a visit? His spirit, now at rest and more loving in death, wanting to look after me in some way?
We weren’t close when he was alive. To tell the truth, I was terrified of him. On his best days, he’d share little things about the past, run with us in the rain, and swim in the pool.
Most of the time, though, he was distant. Contemplative, almost empty.
As a child, I imagined him as someone full of anger. Now, as an adult, I see that he was empty more than anything else, anger is a feeling that fills you up quickly, only to leave just as fast.
It’s funny, the man who scared me so much is the one I identify with the most. I, too, have felt empty for a long time. I, too, gaze at the horizon from that same window, wondering what to do with my life.
One day, I’ll forget him, who he was, the sound of his voice, his crooked nose. All that will be left for me are the dreams that leave me when the day comes and the vague feeling that he will still come back.
ExpoCrato, circa 2012
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