The smell of smoke hangs over me. All night I dream of my father who has miraculously come back to life. I don’t know how to explain this phenomenon. He has been dead a few years now and yet here he is with us in all of the normal family situations. At the supper table, watching TV and working in the garden.
A year after his death I saw him crossing 25th Street leaving a restraunt where I went for my first date. I recognized him but was sure it was someone who looked like him. I’d been told we each have a double somewhere on this planet.
I’m around 16 years old and running towards the house. I have to warn the others that there is a fire blazing and not much time to get out before the whole place burns down.
At the back door I can barely enter the kitchen. The beautiful hardwood floors are charred and glowing embers. On the table is my Nono (grandfather’s) Mass card.
A black and white picture of this noble, elegant man in profile. He looks gentle yet is a dramatically imposing figure.
:: comment:: That day I burnt all the flowers given to me at the time of my fathers funeral. They were dry and tied with a black ribbon. For six months they lay atop the filing cabinet. I can still see them when I close my eyes.