As I mentioned in my last post, my father died at the end of September.
My neighbors and family were kind enough to organize a small memorial for him. It brought me great peace and relief.
The night after the memorial, I dreamt that he, mom and I were in the kitchen. He looked like he did in his 40s (complete with tweed jacket and professorial elbow patches) and was talking excitedly about some lecture or other that he was about to attend. Mom and I look at each other, confused and I whisper to her, “Didn’t he die?” She whispers back, “Yes!”
So I interrupt him and say, “Dad, what are you doing here? You’re dead, remember?”
And he just shrugs and says, “Oh, that. Whatever.” He puts his tea cup in the sink and heads out the door.
Love you, Dad. Blessed Samhain, all.
The Druid's Well 