We were having dinner at Jasper’s. It was a semi-dumpy joint with decent food – Dad’s kind of place. We ate there pretty regularly when my mom was away. It was summer and he was explaining the various things he was working on for each of his hot rods. I didn’t always understand the details of what he was talking about, and I think he knew that, but he gave them to me anyway because I always listened intently.

At a certain point he got up, presumably to go to the restroom. I sipped my soda and munched on bread. I looked out the window. Early evening sun reflected off the grimy glass, whiting out the view with an array of sunspots. My mind wandered to the comfort of warm light from the open garage doors blazing against the deep blue night sky; country music floating softly from the outdated, rasping tape player; the brilliant red and yellow of the hot rods sharply pulling the eye into the scene.

Though the dream felt very real – the kind of dream that you think you have to do something about for a few seconds after waking – I knew he wasn’t going to come back.

A dream of my dad. Possibly brought on by being at a sort of halfway point between January 8th and July 1st.