a visit via dream

Walking into my family's trailer, I smiled as I counted all my brothers; laughing, wrestling, drinking soda and beer and just enjoying each other’s company. My nieces were all spread out in the room, watching the window as it snowed large dry flakes. With how it stuck to the ledge, they were grinning as we were getting ready to be snowed in. Despite the cold outside, inside the trailer was warm. Bobbing and weaving through all the cheerful people, I found my spot to rest.

It was perfect, all of us under one roof of the woodstove and the smell of frybread, cornbread, and homemade chili. I sat on my mother’s couch, a lumpy thing dishwater grey and scratchy, but still something to call home. Our dogs cuddled around the many nieces I had, with our family dog right by my side.

Dexter was old. At 18, that was ancient for a Great Dane. But his half-blind face was grinning, his thick tail wagging a tempo. Could barely see, and yet still full of life. His large, blocky head was resting on my lap as he tried to curl on it.

Yes, this was a happy moment.

I stood from my spot and went to help my mother. She was making more dough for frybread, her hands already sticky and shiny from the greasy dough. And she was smiling. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was happy, relaxed and content.

But I still felt something. Something was wrong, Something was off here. Something was missing. Or was it someone?

Then...

I heard it. Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs to the door. I focused on the said door, my heart beating frantically. I couldn't tell if it was from excitement, or fear. The dogs rose up and lumbered over, wriggling with joy as a heavy callused hand rubbed each head, Mary was also up and greeting whoever was by the door.

When he finally came in, I grinned.

My dad was a tall man, large and loud. A red burned face, white hair decorating his face and part of his head, gunmetal blue eyes that twinkled with coarse mischief, massive arms thick with fat and old muscle, and legs thin from age, but still strong enough to walk.

With all that I could muster, I ran to my dad, smiling and laughing and crying. But...

Why was I crying? I looked around the room. Something was definitely off.

My brothers were here, happy and laid back.

My mother was here, making her frybread which I could never replicate. She was smiling.

My aunt was here, smoking her Camel cigarettes, also smiling.

My grandmother was here, also smoking, except she preferred Pall Mall Red 100’s. Her face also in a grin.

Dexter was here, sleeping now by the wood stove.

I scanned the room.

There were no other doors. NO windows. No pictures on the walls or laundry stacked in clean piles which were never put away.

I was still crying when I looked up at my dad.

He was smiling, his large hand resting on my shoulder, his eyes warm with love.

“I’m sorry I never got to hear your voice, baby girl.”

A call...

Then I remembered.

The hospital,

The life support system,

The smell of bleach and lemon

And the cold, cold feeling of bruised flesh. I began to cry again.

“You’re dead. I saw you die. I held your hand.” I stated. I could feel my body shaking as the warm scene that was just moments ago faded into darkness, with my dad just standing there with me.

But it wasn’t a cold darkness. There was warmth. It was faint, but there was something warm.

“Why did you have to leave us?” I whimpered, burying my head into his collarbone. I was too short to reach his shoulder. I am too short.

“Bug, I never left.”