Dream

It was deep into the night and I awoke, dewy with perspiration.  I had dreamed again of Sandy, Bio-Dad, my father.  He was ashen, perhaps even dead, but speaking to me nonetheless.  I woke with a start.  I "dream" of him frequently... I quote dream because it connotes happy thoughts.  I guess I should say I envision Sandy in my sleep.

I never envisioned Sandy while he was living.  I rarely thought about Sandy while he was still alive.  I frequently referred to him as Bio-Dad and called my stepfather my Father.

My dreams have always been vivid, colorful, breathtaking.  I often feel I am more intelligent in my dreams than in reality.  I speak different languages, quip gracefully, spar efficiently in my dreams.

If I had dreamed of Sandy while he was alive, perhaps I would've dreamed that he was the father I always wanted.  Perhaps I would've dreamed of wreaking revenge upon him, for all of the angst and heartache he bestowed upon my family.

I don't dream about my  fourteenth birthday, when I was given an ABBA cassette, even though it was mid-eighties and I didn't listen to ABBA, even though I didn't have a cassette player and the 99 cent sticker from the truck stop was still on it.  I don't dream about my fifteenth birthday, when Sandy gave me a pearl earring, necklace set, marked 18-24 months on the box.  I don't dream about the countless soccer matches, ballet recitals, dress rehearsals, homecomings, Proms, he never made it to.

I also don't dream about stage 4 cancer.  I don't dream about the clinical trials or the chemo or hospice.

In my waking hours, I think frequently about that one cold saturday in March; a knock upon the door and I opened it to a smallish grayed army man wearing a beret.  My surprise, my shock to recognize that there before me stood Sandy.  Hadn't he seemed so much larger?  He asked to come in because I was too stupefied to invite him.  I quickly called Tim, begged him to come home from errands with the children as fast as he could.

He's gone, of course.  No more awkward phone calls received in the late hours of night, no more inappropriate gifts for me or my children (a farting bear, really?) to acknowledge, no more tense introductions, no more disappointments.

Except, I am still waiting for an appropriate 15th birthday gift, the proud applause, the escort, the fatherly hug.  Except, I'm still reeling, stunned that Sandy could die.

I also dream of sticky sweet summer days in the Delta with the unrelenting sun beating down and the taste of Gran's cooking and the comfort I feel in when Tim envelopes me with his big 6'4" frame.  I dream of my children and what I can offer them.  Dream... not envision.  I dream about those things.