Daddy

I went to a funeral today.

There was a fella who stood up and told a story about a dream that he had about the gal who passed. It was obvious that he was troubled - but not in a bad way.

As he spoke, it reminded me of a dream I had about my dad right before my 21st birthday. My father passed away when I was 8 years old (from esophageal cancer).

I could write all day about my dad. But... today I'm going to write about my dream.

In order for this to really make any sense, you have to know that I was very close with my dad. I was his little baby; daddy's little girl. He died far too young - at 44. There was a moment before he died when I was sitting on his lap and he was reading me the Sunday funnies. He stopped mid-comic and started to weep. I remember this like it was yesterday. Through his tears he whimpered almost breathlessly, "I don't want to die."  I don't think because he was particularly afraid of death. I think he just didn't want to leave his family. He didn't want to leave me.

It wasn't until I was a teen when it really hit me. Holy shit, I don't have a dad! At a time when all my other friends would have "dates" with their dads, or their dads would take them shopping for prom dresses and shoes and take pictures of their first date. This is pretty traumatic when you're 16. I used to get so angry with my friends when they would fight with their dads. I just never understood having that kind of time. If only they knew how it could be gone in a second.

Oh, I longed to know him. I missed him so much. My favorite time of day growing up was when he would walk through the door at the end of the day, "'Ello, 'ello, 'ello!!!"  I'd drop whatever I was doing, run down the hall and literally leap into his arms. I felt so safe there. He held me close, his beard tickling my neck. The world could have crumbled apart right then and there and it wouldn't have mattered to me. He was my hero.

I would have given anything for one more day with him. I still would.

I'm not sure why I dreamt this, but I'd like to think it was God's way of helping me let go. Helping me say goodbye.

I dreamt that I was back on Ridgewood Hill - the little hill outside of Corvallis, Oregon where I grew up in a house that my dad designed and built. (He was an architect.)  I was actually down the hill a bit from our house, at one of my childhood friend's homes. It had this long driveway lined with a canopy of tall pine trees. I just remember turning around and seeing my dad there. He looked so happy. So healthy. So full of life. So different from the years before he died because he was so, so sick. I was thrilled to see him.  I wrapped my arms around his neck, which was easier now because I was grown. He told me how beautiful I was and how proud of me he was.

He told me he didn't have much time. I didn't really understand what he meant.

We talked. We laughed. We held hands.

Then I heard the sound of a train coming. And I knew it was coming for him.

I fell to my knees. I begged him not to go. I wept and held on to his pant leg screaming, "NooOOOOO!!!!!", looking up at him from way down there and feeling like I was 8 again. He just smiled so tenderly and said it was time. He lifted me into his arms, just as the train was pulling up. He kissed me, told me he loved me, and said it would be ok. I didn't want to but I knew I had to let him go. I watched him board the train. He turned towards me, smiled again and blew me a kiss. I just sat there on my knees as I watched the train pull away, all the while he was waving and smiling at me.

I woke up sobbing. More than sobbing. I was moaning. My heart was bleeding. I cannot describe the reality of that dream. I felt him. I could smell him (Old Spice). I still felt the warmth of his embrace.  I could still hear the sound of the train as it chugged away ringing in my ears.

That was the last time I saw him.

I've had dreams of him since then, but nothing like that.

I've been blessed by people who knew my dad. I love when people tell me what kind of man he was, how he was thought of as a friend, a son, a brother. I love when people look at me and say, "You look just like your father." What an honor.

And, boy, do I! I have his eyes... I have his eyebrows, even down to the way the little hairs grow. If you were to place our pictures side by side, there is no question that I came from him.

I've been told not only am I the spitting image of my dad, but I am practically the female replica. I have all of his characteristics, his stubborn willfulness. His ambition. His temper. (Among many others.)

I knew that if ever I had a son, he would carry my father's name. Jeffrey Allen. Jeffrey after his uncle (Scott's brother) and Allen after my dad.

And I always prayed that if God blessed me with a son, that he, too, would look like my dad.

God answered my prayed. He gave me a son. In fact, from the moment I learned I was pregnant, having a son was the only option in my mind. We never did discuss girls' names.

The day Jeffrey was born, I held that tiny little boy in my arms. Gazed at him... and realized Jeffrey looks nothing like my dad. I love that Jeffrey looks like his dad (that'd be Scott, if you're following along). However, I have to admit that I was disappointed that he didn't carry really any resemblance to my dad.  Not even in the eyes.

Damn.

As Jeffrey started growing and developing his little personality, it dawned on me one day. He may not look a thing like my dad, but guess what? He has his personality. The same stubborn willfulness, ambition, temper.... 

I prayed for a son that gave me some piece of my dad. I don't know why I was so wrapped up in the physical attributes. What I got is far better.

I miss my dad. There isn't a day that passes when I don't think of him. I see him every time I look in the mirror. And I see him every time I watch my son interact with the world.

I'm grateful for that.

And I'm still grateful for that dream that gave me one last moment with my dad.