Last night, while fast asleep, I traveled to Ireland. As I wandered around a small town of an unknown name, I found my father walking a quiet, narrow lane. He told me he lived there now—in Ireland.
Following him, he led me to a small house on that same narrow lane. Warm yellow light poured out of its un-shuttered windows, and smoke rose from a small chimney that popped out from a green tiled roof.
In the blink of an eye, I was standing in a small living room, and my father was sitting in a chair that looked even more cozy than the room. I have no memory of what we spoke about, but I do know we spoke. I also have no memory of leaving… or saying goodbye.
The dream stayed with me throughout the day today… you know the type… we all have them. In the real world, my father is nineteen years gone this month. The dream seemed timely, and I was happy to have had it. I’d like to think he really is there, in Ireland, in some way... having somehow found his way home—to a place he never knew was home.
