Like Father Part Seven

In front of other people, I see no separation between my father and I.

"Dad, do you still have recurring dreams?"

"Yes."

"The flying one?"

"I have one where I'm driving from the back seat of a car. Naked."

"I wonder what that means," I laughed.

He looked at me like any explanation would have been bullshit, like nothing motivated thoughts sewn together by the night.

"The one I have most often," he said, "is where I am walking, slowly, looking at my feet, and then I begin to fly. That's nice."

I felt God right there.

"Are they lucid?"

"What?" He didn't hear me.

"Do you know you're dreaming?" I said louder.

"My dreams are very logical. No strange characters. Just ordinary. I have the most ordinary dreams."

I wondered if he lived his waking hours in such distorted reality that once he fell asleep his imagination collapsed all together.

"Me, too," I lied.