My dad in old age… he would have been wise in some matters. Important matters of the day to day. Wise in his right-brained blueness. Wise as each white hair in his beard. My dad would have been quite the old wise man with a beard. With his blue calmness and his polo jacket like the man infront today. Smelling good and evil as accurately as a doverman. He was left-handed and no engineer.
—
The mourning process came in dreams.
And I guess It couldn´t have been any other way since in my day hours or what some wrongly call conciousness (all this time I´ve been everything but concious) I could assure I had accepted it even before it happened — coming from the fact that I could see it coming or that it was coldly a statistic. And hell, these things are like that, either you stand up straight with strength in you thighs to hold your guts up or you´re washed away. I wish I´d allowed myself to get taken by the waves.
But i didn´t and hence, I mourned only at nighttime, alone and in my subconcious. One night at a time, I went through the whole process. I don´t know if I went by textbook definition. It does seem quite logic and tidy the way it happened.
There was always my dad and in each dream I always knew he was dead or about to die and yet he was always my dad before the crisis, the model father, the reasonable one, the support and the healthiest person I knew. Then he started appearing ill in the dreams and that´s when the logic began because there was a coherent connection between him being ill and him dying. But then he was dead again and he would come back from the dead being ill. Until one day I saw him in his coffin. Even if he was standing around in the way I like to remember him looking at his coffin, he was to me dead-dead. I basically relived the whole experience in my dreams but always knowing that he was dead.
The night I saw him in his coffin was the last time he was in my dreams as a dead person.
That was around the time I forgave him for leaving.
