The night before my father’s funeral
The night before my father’s funeral I dreamed I was 17 again, waiting for my life to start, waiting to leave the small military base in southern California and begin deciding for myself where and when my feet would roam.
My bedroom was in the basement of a whitewashed house, built in the early 1900s, officially designated a historic monument, which meant when anything in the house broke it couldn’t be replaced with anything newer, nicer. It was still many steps up from most of the military housing I called home before.
With my own bathroom and private entrance, my basement kingdom was a teenager’s dream. Too bad I shared my bedroom with an empire of spiders. We had an unspoken peace treaty, an invisible line of demarcation. If one of them crossed it, I executed a quick and painless assassination.
The night before my father’s funeral I dreamed I was showering in that basement bathroom. There was no invasion of spiders, but I wasn’t alone.
I sensed a man approaching with malice oozing from his pores. Dread wrapped its cold arms around me. The hot spray of the shower became icy spikes as it hit my skin.
The man was my father’s oldest friend.
I knew he came to take something from me.
Naked, defenceless, terrified; I screamed but no one heard.
When I woke, shaking in a cold sweat, I was 24, and it was time to go to the church.
My father’s oldest friend would be there, to give a eulogy. I don’t remember what he said as he stood in front of the congregation. I don’t remember what anyone said, during the service or after.
After, in the community room, fluorescent lights bounced off scratched and yellowed linoleum floors, and tables sagged under the weight of casseroles and baked goods. We’d end up taking most of it home and eating it for weeks until we were sick of it sinking to the bottom of our bellies like lead and threw the remaining scraps away.
I don’t remember what anyone said, only arms embracing, briefly; hands shaking, gently; watery eyes and sad smiles.
Mourners sat hunched in folding chairs or standing around in awkward clumps. Who knows what you’re supposed to do at these things? Who knows what you’re supposed to say?
I didn’t know what to say as I stood in the receiving line. How many ways can you say, Thank you for coming? How many times can you lie? I’m okay. I’ll be alright.
My father’s oldest friend approached. He wrapped me in a friendly hug.
I may have shuddered.
I may shudder, still, when I see him every few years.
I’ve never told him, the dream of a crime he never committed is more real to me than anything else that happened that day.
