I seem to have a dream about my father roughly once a year.
Most of the time he acts pretty much like when he was alive,
Stands off to one side and maintains a running commentary,
Sucking in smoke as he laughs, then exhaling it as he speaks.
It is hard for me to gauge his attitude toward life and death.
At times he seems to ask, How can I be dead if we are here?
But that may be more of a waking thought about the dream.
My dreaming self is wiser than to have that kind of thought.
My dream self is with him already and wants that to persist.
There is a certain white ribbed sweater he wore all the time.
He is always wearing it in these dreams, I only just realized,
A cheap sweater from the huge department store at the mall.
It started to pill as soon as he got it but looked good on him.
There we stand, in a field, or in the corner at a strange party.
He knows about life and feels for me that I’m still here in it,
But I wouldn’t say he’s bitter, or that he regrets his own run.
Honestly, these conversations only ever last about a minute.
We never say goodbye or tie things off, but, then, we didn’t.