My father passed away last night. I wrote this a moment ago. Something may come of it, or maybe not. I felt I should keep it here, as if on a shelf, saved for later.
There was always a stigma around having children. Bryan grew up with a firm understanding that the life of a parent was not for him. Parents could be brash, confusing, arrogant, and false. Bryan wanted nothing to do with that world.
One night, while he slept, he dreamed of a child. His child, he knew in his heart, a part of him. There was warmth and contentment, a kind of peace you can only find in the world of dream. When the shrill cry of 6:30 came, tearing him from his make-believe progeny, he felt a loss and disappointment that could only be cured by a shower and a cup of coffee.
He didn’t think much of the dream after that.