I’ve been having weird dreams where my dad comes back from the dead and casually sits at home on his favorite sofa. He just unlocks the door, comes in, goes there and sits in silence. He turns on the TV and surfs channels until he finds some kind of documentary. Then, he relaxes and ignores me when I look at him stunned from the living’s door. “Dad? I thought you died?”, I find myself asking. He only looks at me with a calm smile “I thought so too. Now I’m back”. I just shrug and sit next to him, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s strange, because I remember holding his hand until the warmth of his body left him, leaving room for the cold. But when I dream, I see him alive, as if nothing had happened. It’s strange, because I perfectly remember how everything happened. I remember the start, the taxi drive, the ambulance and the emergency room. I remember the ICU, the doctors and the hospital robes. I remember the feeling of a sanitary mask over the skin of my lips. I remember the first night I spent on an armchair next to his hospital bed, holding his hand and barely sleeping. And I remember the last morning, when he could barely breathe.
But now, after my dreams, I want to remember him sitting on his favorite sofa watching documentaries, eating his dinner, asking for Coke (the drink, not the drug) and giving me little life lessons. I also want to remember how he looked when he laughed, when he really laughed, not when he just made a funny comment and briefly laughed. The laugh I will remember is the one when he could barely breathe and tears streamed down his cheeks.
Ridiculously enough, it seems that during the last couple days of his life he also had tears streaming down his cheeks, and he also could barely breathe. Life has a strange way of turning things around.
Like now, when life seems to want me to dream of my father being alive and happy at home.
Maybe it’s a sign that he’s happy, and at home.
Or maybe it’s a sign that I’m going mad.