Dad pushed me into my life
The other night I dreamt about Dad again. We were walking along together – not quite side by side. He was ahead and slightly to the right of me. I saw his back mostly. An old t-shirt. I was talking to him about his life – the fact that he did what he set out to achieve while he was living and that he shouldn’t feel as short-changed as he did. He seemed very upset to be dead.
“Sixty-five years isn’t bad,” I encouraged. “Another ten and you would lived as an old man.” I was going on in this manner, ranting and trying to make him feel better.
Then suddenly he turned and pushed me. He shoved me very hard, right into my own life
As I fell, rather than coffee tables and chairs, I felt all the different aspects of my life clatter about me. My website work, my scripts, the films, my gym work, relationships and my creativity. These manifest as solid objects and Dad pushed me right into them – trying to teach me a lesson of sorts. He was very angry about being dead and wanted me to know that my life was small and unfinished, much like his own.
I can’t for the life of me think what Dad would have done with any more years on earth. I spent some time today with Ma. There were workmen all over the place – fixing things Dad would have fixed himself. Gutters, pipes and grinding down the bamboo shoots.
Mum was upset because she couldn’t really cope with all the decay. “Your father would fix these things.” True. Dad would find any excuse to be working with his hands. I tried to remind Mum that all these things were merely objects, but I don’t think she was in the right space for existential philosophy.
