So hard to get past all the residual anger. So well tamped. Was surprised at how I felt when it surfaced. The kind of thing that leads to ghosts….

Whenever I dream of him – it’s rare – the circumstances are always the same. He’s in his final illness. We move around his old house. He’s silent. Mute really and I don’t remember saying much either.

There’s a great sense of sorrow. Yearning is there on both sides: to be together, express affection. Nothing happens. We embrace in silence. Re-living one of my last memories of him, hugging. Was it goodbye? Standing at his door. Maybe the last time I saw him before he got sick. His stubble against my cheek and neck. Taller than him. Loving him in that moment innocent of any finality.

My anger – he seems to hold it. To be the center of all frustration for me. A stew of adolescent thwarted-ness held over all these years, reaching a state of frozen inevitability unexamined. An accumulation of a lifetime of difficulties.



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