My father is standing besides my brothers. We’re all building. Putting the pieces together. But I’m stuck and no longer making progress. My mom stands besides me oblivious to my turmoil.
Does she know what I’m thinking? This must be a dream because we are grown up now, and dad died when I was eight years old.
Although everyone’s building, I can’t. I watch the way my father moves. Somehow, I know this will be my last chance to see him again. I’m afraid because over the decades his memory has faded so much.
But here he is in front of me. I try to distill his essence, but it hurts. I start to shake and bend over in pain. I weep.
Mom turns to me and glares. She’s the only one that notices.
”Tell him, tell him!” she urges and then turns away.
I crouch besides my dad while he continues to build. I whisper softly in his ear.
”I will miss you dearly when you are gone”
These are words an eight year old never knew how to say. But now, now I know
He turns around and smiles He then holds me.
”I love you” he says
But I am too overwhelmed to speak. Which really doesn’t matter. He understands.
I hear voices, spirits, coming to take him away. He holds my mom’s hand and she walks him to the door. My brothers and I continue building. But now we are joined by my wife and kids.
As we work, I tell them we have to stick together . We have to talk to each other. My son and daughter look up inquisitively and ask me if I am okay. I'm not a twenty two year old medical student anymore more but a forty two year old husband and father. Yet with complete certainty, I answer the same way.
I take a deep breath. Put my head down. Start all over.
And begin to build again.