My father came to me last night in a dream, the first time he's appeared in my dreams since he passed away at age 89 in March 2016. Maybe the first time he's ever appeared in my dreams.
He looked older than this. Maybe 50 years old, healthy, casual, and serene, before time took its usual toll. He was dressed in neat slacks and a button-up shirt, short-sleeved. He looked normal. He acted normally, too... quiet, not shy, doing not talking.
So normal, I wasn't surprised to see him. At least, not until I awoke, thought about my dream, and realized I saw and felt Dad.
He silently, handed me a pile of three or four boxes. I knew the top, rectangular box held a picnic lunch.
The boxes underneath were flatter, wider, but not nearly as deep. I think the other boxes contained documents and information Dad thought I needed. Thinks I need.
I fell asleep with a half-dissolved throat lozenge in my mouth. He motioned for me to take it out. I woke up, and without thought or feeling, obeyed him. Of course.
And he was gone. I feel peace from his visit. A new peace, as I never deeply mourned his death as I did when my Mother passed away, ten days later.
The connection between me and Dad was as much intellectual as emotional. When he was dying, he asked me to send him newspapers. We talked current events and economics and politicians. We watched the moon landing together in 1969.
I think I know what's in the other boxes. His ancestral info that he avoided like poison during his lifetime. ("You never know what you'll find." But I firmly believe he knew exactly what he would find.) Family info that stunned me when I researched it after he passed, but dropped when we moved last year.
Seems like I need to get back to it.