Waking later than usual this morning, I peel away the sleep. I recall a restless night of dreams while writing in my notebook, flashes of images throughout the day: my father manipulating tendons on my younger brother’s hip in a room so refrigerated that, I’m told, I complained aloud in my sleep; shadows, and a sensation of fleeing something; skeletons and laughter.
Later, around mid-day my son accompanies me while I run a household errand. It is a familiar route, one we’ve taken together often over the years. I drive through memories: adolescent frustration and worry, tight-lipped rides of stewing anger, hurt feelings and hot tempers---Like signposts. Milestones.
Back home it occurs to me that my dream regarding my brother had to do with my father’s senior worries. He is old. He wants to be certain his sons are positioned to take care of themselves, that they have standing…that they can stand on their own.
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