So I haven't posted in a few weeks, and I feel badly about that. I wanted this blog to be an ongoing thing, but right now... well, talking about my dad has started to hurt. A few days after my dad died, I talked about him frequently. I wondered what he was doing up there in heaven, and how much he was judging and complaining about peoples' reactions. But now that it's been two and a half months, doing so hurts. It hurts because it's been two and a half months since I have spoken to him, and the longer it is, the more it hurts. I know I've said this before, but I truly thought time would heal. So far, it's only made the wound deeper.
Last week, I had two horrible dreams about my dad. I'm not one of those people that thinks every image in a dream has some sort of deeper, hidden meaning, but these dreams were fairly straightforward.
In the first one, I received a series of text messages from my dad. (Actually, they were instant messages from his "MustangAndy11" AIM account that went straight to my phone. He contacted me like this almost every single day.) I was surprised, and told him I thought he was dead. He told me, in his traditional terrible grammar and spelling, that it was just a mistake. He had been in the hospital, but he was out now, and he was fine. He then started complaining about my grandparents, which was another one of his favorite hobbies.
In the second one, I was at home, and I was wearing the veil from my wedding day. My dad came through the door, and, again, I told him that I thought he was dead. He didn't have an explanation; he just told me that he wasn't, and we resumed our normal routines. I was so happy to see him, yet I didn't show it.
After both dreams (especially the first), I woke up with a second of hopefulness, only to remember that they were just dreams. I've found no comfort in these dreams, only momentary pain. I just hope they stop.
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