I used to hate my dream of a visit from my late father. Waking up to the reality of my loss was brutal. I didn’t want to go there if it had to end.
Now it’s like re-reading a favorite book.
It always starts the same—in the cemetery. As we round the curve to their grave-sites, Daddy is sitting on his gravestone, one foot of the ground. He sees me with a got a cat-that-got-the-canary look on his face. He’s laughing. I run into his arms, crying with relief. He hugs me.