I haven’t talked about my dad in a while. I just woke up from a dream about him.
In the dream, somehow we found out that he only had a couple more days to live, because he got sick. After a bunch of really random things (you know how dreams are), we went out to eat for the last night. No restaurants were open, and he said it was because if they opened and he went there there would be a riot of people trying to get in to say bye to him. We finally found a place, and me and my sister had to sit on the floor for some reason. My parents kept trying to sneakily get me drunk, and I just pretended to drink. I thought that they probably assumed it would be easier for me if I didn’t remember the last night, but I couldn’t stand the thought of forgetting.
The next day, I went to his work to try and talk to some people he worked with while he was still alive. I remember hoping that when I got there, I’d find out that he hadn’t told anybody about it, because that would mean that he was playing a trick on us and he was really ok. I found some guy that I recognized, and stopped him on some stairs. He realized who I was and broke into awkward chatter about pointless things and wouldn’t make eye contact. Then my dad walked up behind him.
I said, “Hey dad.” He didn’t say hey back. He just said “Superheroes don’t give themselves their nicknames. Somebody else does that.” He paused and looked at me. He starting scrunching his face up to fight back tears, but I could see his eyes getting red. I knew then that it was real. “It’s all just water in our bodies,” he said.
That’s when I woke up. For a second, it was relief; the dream wasn’t real. And then it was.
On the upside, I went to Tsunami (the sushi place downtown) for the first time since I went with him the night before he died. I even saw the table we sat at. And I didn’t cry. That’s good right?
Or maybe crying doesn’t matter anyway. Maybe it’s all just water in our bodies.