"and it is so bright now, you can hardly bear it as it fills the door, this immense glacier of light coming on, and still you do not know who you are, but here it is, try to remember, it is all beginning." -B.H. Fairchild
My dad and mom were visiting this week. They are gradually walking into old age; slowly, but noticeably since we see them only about every six months. One morning at breakfast, my dad asked me if I dream. His question had all the trappings of pastoral interest, but clearly revealed the truth - he dreams and he wanted to talk about it. He told us that he dreams all the time - rich, vibrant color dreams - full of images, people, smells. This one in particular contained a barn where his Sunday suits were all hanging. He was trying in some sense to arrange them. A flood had come through and washed all the stalls clean, but the dung was now in the middle of the barn. Someone was outside, honking a car horn, telling him to "come on." He was hurrying to arrange them, trying to get out to the car...and then he woke up. He tried to go back into his dream, but could not.
My dad takes a sip of coffee and says he dreams almost every night. He wakes up and wants to tell them to someone, talk about them. The obvious person would be my mother; however, she said she doesn't want to hear them. Actually, he said that and she said, "They take too long to tell, David." And I felt my father's heart drip silent blood in a marriage where his wife won't listen to his dreams. Maybe she never has. I am only beginning to see the true people my parents are - not the ideals they were in childhood. They left out this morning, headed back to Arkansas, driving seventeen god-awful hours back across Kansas and Oklahoma. It is their anniversary; forty-three years of marriage. Were there days in the initial love/lust frenzy when she would listen to his dreams? Did he have the courage to tell her those dreams? Or are they just now beginning to surface, an "immense glacier of light coming on"? Or maybe he did tell her and they scared her; showed her that she really had no idea who this young, preacher farmboy was that she promised till death do them part? Did she ever tell him her dreams? This morning she said, "I don't dream that much." Questions I cannot answer, but maybe I have some idea - maybe I can try to remember...he's dreaming of barns and swept out stalls and the beautiful smell of cow shit that can make your heart weep if you're a person of the land and she's outside, honking the car horn, saying, "David, you're taking too long...come on." Happy anniversary, dad and mom. Drive safely in the keep of God's angels and sleep well tonight...it is all beginning. I love you.
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