Today, June 12, is the first anniversary of my dad's death. It's weird to think that this time last year I was sobbing hysterically while R held the colicky Buckaroo. I still don't really feel like my dad is gone most of the time. It just seems like we're taking a sabbatical from each other for a short time-- as we sometimes did.
I had a good dream last month. My dad never speaks to me in my dreams, and this was no exception, but that was ok. I was having dinner at a restaurant with three of my poetry friends, and the server came up and said, "There's someone here to see you. He said his name is Bob."
I walked down some steps, and there was Dad sitting on a bar stool. His face was odd, scarred maybe, and he had a cane. I saw him, and I knew that he'd survived the wreck and he was alive, and he had to use a fake name because he was on the run.
We didn't say anything. I just hugged him, and he hugged me back, and we cried for a while. I was still crying when I woke up. It was the kind of dream that leaves a dreamer all unsorted for a morning.
R and I have decided to do something generous for another person every year on this day to build up some positive energy around the hard memories, and that's what we did. It was R's idea, really.
Today was also Sweet Potato's promotion ceremony from 5th grade. It was the usual stuff, and at the end all of the fifth graders faced the audience and sang, "I Believe I Can Fly," and I kept thinking-- this is the hokiest song ever, and I am so not going to cry-- but then there I was blub blubbing away all over the program.
In the picture SP is wearing the apron I bought her for a grad gift. I told her that it wasn't because I want her to be a domestic goddess when she grows up; I just thought we could do a lot of baking in The Woods, and she has been using the same toddler apron since, ya know, she toddled.
Tomorrow is Obo's big day. He's graduating from 8th. In preparation, he got his hair all wacked off, and he looks gorgy, but he hates it. I'll have to post a picture tomorrow.
Moving news: It is never a good idea to walk into a moving person's house and say, "Wow! You still have a lot of work to do!"
My friend Suzanne and I had tea leaf salad at Burma Superstar. It was so yummilicious. It's like the time my friend Laura told me to get a Puka dog in Kauai, and I waited until the last day of the trip. Der. I may have to go back for another tea salad tomorrow. It tastes like tea for crying out loud!
Also, Buckaroo tried to rid himself of his pointer finger this evening by sticking it in the fan. Luckily he only grazed off a sliver. He was quite miserable, though, and kept pointing the band-aided finger at me with a look on his face that said, "Fix it, Mama."
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