I think my dad just came to see me.
I was dreaming. I'd just finished up some subconscious sequence and was standing around (with my coworkers, go figure) talking about it, and he ambled up to the door of whatever building I happened to be inside. Naturally, I know he's gone, awake and asleep, so I rushed outside to see him, confused but ecstatic.
He was led by my son, Brendan, hand in hand. Dad said nothing, but smiled and hugged me, and seemed older than I knew. The feel of his glasses and whiskers on my face was familiar. Then I hugged Brendan, and he said to me, "Daddy, when I'm older, and I ask you [something about visiting Grampa]..." and the rest that followed is lost to memory, but it was his words--the words of this child, my child--that clued me in:
Dad was just stopping by to say hello, to check up on me, and let me know that....everything is okay. That he loves me still, and knows I still love him. That he is at peace, and he is here with us. That all the pain of all those years is no longer a burden; it has been lifted. That the corporeal filters of experience and desire, of unmet needs and deep emotional deficit, are gone.
I love my dad, and I miss him so much. And as awful as I must have sounded to my wife when I woke, wailing like a child for as long as I did, I hope he finds moments, many more moments, like this one throughout my life to stop by again. I know I can never have him back, but if I thought I had even one more such visit to look forward to again, it would be a world of comfort.