Oh, my friends, it is the late night blogging of a woman mentally blurred and sinking slowly into Ambian induced bliss. Yes, the Bono stumbling is in full force as I avoid colliding with furniture and cats. My speech is slow and so very affectionate. I sing little songs to myself as I get my water and work through the stacks of books to see what will be read before I slide into dreamland.
Did you know I do lucid dreaming? Indeed. It has been a big help since my Dad died. He's got a lot to say. An argument that's been taking place between us over the last month has me finally convincing him he has died.
"Oh," he says. "Then what am I doing here?"
"Where do you think you are?"
"No, sweety. This isn't home as it is now. This is home from when you had four obnoxious kids and a job that robbed you of your will to live. Look at yourself."
He looks down. He's wearing the same blue-gray cardigan he wore in life but it hangs on him. He reaches up to touch his hair which was shorn in the hospital from the curly ponytail he had when he went in.
He points to all the people moving about the house. Jon still has that brown 'fro he had in high school. Paul is tall and dark and silent. Dianne is very young and running around like a maniac.
"They don't know you're here. This is all memory. It isn't life."
A look of sadness passed over his face replaced by resolution.
I reached out and took his hand.
"It's ok. It's ok for you to move on."
"I'll take care of her, I promise."
He smiled and tears welled in his eyes.
"Everyone loves you, Dad. We won't forget you. It's ok to move on."
And he did.
The next morning an illness that had robbed me of strength and energy slowly left me. I felt better, stronger, faster than I was before. Calmer, too, which waylays the bionic experience.
Last night was the first night I didn't dream of him in five months. He's back to the land beyond with horses and Harleys and blue skies and cowboys songs.
And I'm back to whistling while I write, listening to my music and clapping when the sun shines.