So many people live days, weeks, months or even years angry at
someone, losing the precious time that could be spent creating joyous,
loving memories. We misunderstand or ignore premonitions or gut feelings
and when it is too late, we struggle to forgive ourselves. Sometimes,
we learn from those painful lessons and we do it right the next time.
The next time has arrived.
While in college, Dad and I created a
special time for us before going to work and school. Each morning, Dad
would get up at 4 A.M. and begin the percolator and then sat at the end
of the table in his Captains chair, lunch packed, and a cigarette in his
fingers. His arms would be crossed across his chest, legs outstretched
and his ankles would be crossed. On the mornings I had to open the store
before classes, I would come out of the darkness into the
kitchen and Dad would sit up, smiling and face me at the table, and ask
me about my life. Instead of giving advice, Dad had just the right way
of asking questions and Immediately I would find the answers I didn't
know that I needed before I sat down.
One morning, I woke up
unusually exhausted. For some reason I had been sleeping on the sofa for
the last few nights. I pushed myself off the sofa and slowly walked
into the warm kitchen and slid into my seat and slouched back. Dad asked
me what was wrong. I answered with confusion and honesty, "Nothing."
"You
can tell me anything. I am concerned about you. Why don't you trust
me?" he pleaded. His voice shook as he tried to hold back emotion.
I
was dazed and confused and asked him why he asked. Dad had heard me
crying in my sleep over the past few nights. He was lost for
explanations. Again, I could not remember the dreams and I certainly
did had no idea as to why I would be crying. I promised that indeed if I
had a problem I would come to him immediately.
Not long after
these foggy mornings, I found myself changing my routine and arrived
home for school much earlier. It was an unusual day and as I stepped
over the threshold I noticed a sink full of dishes and the trail of
chaos leading from the kitchen to the living room. Dad had never allowed
the dishes to sit in the sink. He had four dishwashers and one of them
was going to work if any of the other three were not home or busy. My
morning felt emotionally heavy. I had snapped at Dad the night before
and I didn't know why. I was not angry with him and had never been angry
at Dad. I dug in and began with washing. Lost in the absence of
thought, a place of no where, I was returned by a knocking at the
kitchen door. Startled, I turned to peek through the yellow curtains. We
lived so far off the path, no one ever came over unannounced,
especially when my parents were not home. My stomach sank and a
darkness loomed as I opened the door to two men I recognized as friends
of my father.
The two friends also worked with Dad. In my mind I
insisted they were here for a good cause. Slowly and with their heads
slightly bowed, one of the men asked when my mom would be home. I
wasn't sure, but she usually arrived before noon; the men replied it was
okay, they would wait for her. I offered them a seat and something to
drink and I continued my tasks at a much faster rate. I had to keep my
mind and hands busy. Mom sauntered in and the men rose to meet her. All I
can remember at that moment is the screaming.and watching her fall to
her knees and the men trying to catch her.
There are no other
memories until the viewings and funeral. During the viewings I realized
that I had lived the scenes of this surreal experience before. The
tears and cries that my father had asked about were the dreams that I
could not remember, but now could while standing in the funeral home. I
cannot remember anything else of the days following the accident that
killed Dad. The only memories I carry are ofof the night before. I
wished that I would have said, "I love you" to Dad instead of snap at
him.
It was on a Wednesday morning, I awoke up and couldn't see. A
film covered my eyes and my eye lashes were stuck closed with the goo.
It reminded me of a young baby with a cold. I didn't remember crying in
my sleep. I had dreams that I remembered toward morning, but none of
them were sad. But, I had cried. I ignored my instincts and curiosity, I
did not want to go there. I did not want to remember the nights before
Dad was killed.I did not want to remember this was a premonition.
Thursday
night I had a vivid dream that was first person, fantasy and yet, real.
I opened our back door and o nto the grass to find a large turtle lying
on her back. I gingerly picked her up and placed her in the wood. I
returned to the steps to find the turtle lying there, again, on her
back. I held the edges of her shell and returned her carefully to the
edge of the wood and spoke to her and once again, I returned to the
steps to find here there on her back. My mind's eye was now standing
behind the room full of the guests inside who were all dressed in
white. I could read their minds, they all could see me and they thought
my hands were empty and that I had lost it.They saw me as if I were
talking to an empty space between my hands. Immediately, I was behind
the the men in the security office watching the surveillance video. The
video picked up the turtle on the tape leaving me to wonder about
alchemy and magic.
Immediately, my eyes flashed open and I felt
wide awake. I recorded the dream in my journal and slipped downstairs to
meditate. I could not clear my heart or my mind. Thinking that I would
come back later and try again, I dressed for the day. In my closet, I
was pulled to a white tunic that I wear for sacred ceremonies and a
wooden necklace with a salamander on the disc; a high school graduation
gift that I had never worn. I was not concerned why I felt that I needed
to dress in such a way. It felt right. I honored the guides and gently
pulled the tunic over my head. I felt a need to gently adjust the
necklace over the tunic as if performing a ritual.
It was urgent to use my time wisely and decided to work on one of my
continuing education classes when the telephone rang. There were no men
at my door and my mother was not here, but the message would be the
same I did not scream nor fall to the floor. I cried bittersweet tears
of joy and sorrow. I rejoiced that my sister who in truth was more of a
mother to me journeyed Home. The tears of sorrow were for the living.
Now,
as I prepare for the funeral, I will prepare to see what I cannot
remember of my tearful sleep. It will be easier this time. This time, I had said," I love you."
