in grandfather's arms.

I dreamed it the night after the fire with Tatewari. grandfather.

we were gathered at my home, ready to celebrate.
several chairs around a small table
and my father appeared.
I didn't see his face but I saw his arms, thin, brown.
I saw his frame
he was not there in body, but he was no ghost
he was there, I knew
as he is now.
whatever and wherever that is.
but he was there, approaching the table in a manner that was uncharacteristic of him
before.
tentative, respectful,
approaching with a hope for permission
a reluctance, not knowing if he would be welcomed.

I welcomed him.
he said, there may not be room.
I said,
we will make room for you. please
join us
please
sit
please.
you are welcome here.

it is tender to remember.

I remember half waking but planting my feet firmly in the dream.
I didn't want to leave him.

I thought,
"what would it be like to sit in his lap?
what would it be like to be infant sized and be cradled in his arms?
can I try?"

I tried, but couldn't find the way.
Truth be told, my body has no memory to draw upon.
I don't know what it would be like to be held by my father.
I couldn't even imagine it.
I had no idea of the shape or sense.

then, I thought,
how sad, how sad.
I miss him. I am so glad he is here and
how sad, how sad
that I couldn't know any of this in this life.

So I stretched my heart backwards and grieved for the fracture of love that led me here.
the painful truth that my father, never in his lifetime, knew love. not the bottomless, unconditional, hang the moon and swelling fullness of joy love.
as much as I tried, my fear was greater than love. my need to survive stronger than love.
I loved him in every way I could, but my sympathy was more steady.
Anyway, he swatted it down if ever it came too close.

So I stretched my heart backwards and imagined him held. imagined him loved by his father and mother; those guardians who once only frightened him. I imagined them held by their loving fathers and mothers and on and on and on and on, along the red thread. Imagine if love was the thing that persisted through my ancestors! Imagine if every baby was held and gazed upon and cooed at and cuddled and sung to, imagine if love wasn't an effort or obligation to ineptly live up to. Imagine being wanted, imagine belonging.....imagine celebration at the sight of you. I imagined this for everyone in my family through Iran and China and who knows where, who knows who.

and I woke up soft and weepy, sweetly grieving. so grateful for the presence, finally, of my father in my dreams. he never said goodbye before he left. well, if he did, it wasn't the right kind of goodbye. it was more like a curse. Yet, I survived it. at least so far.
And, i never said goodbye. Not to his face anyway. But in a deluge of poetry and prose, yes. I said goodbye a thousand times.
And now, I am swaddled in a sadness that is like a gentle rain. It's good that he has come. It's good that I can welcome him and forgive him and love him with my heart.
And maybe, someday, maybe he'll let me know that he can love me, that he's learned how. Maybe someday he'll tell me loves me.
For now, it is something so preciously and tenuously tender to know
that he is welcomed at my table
and that he has chosen to join me.