The other day, I dreamt about my dad, who passed away a little over two years ago.
These dreams don't happen too often, but when they do, it can be difficult. It wasn't until I woke up that I remembered he was gone. In it, I'd bumped into him in a shop like Wilkinson, where he was browsing with a friend. I was in a bit of a hurry so it was more of a quick hello than anything. I may even have been a little brusque because I needed to get away.
It was as I'd left the shop that I remembered there was something important I needed to tell him, but on turning back, I found I could barely lift my legs. The more I tried, the less I moved. I knew if I didn't hurry, he'd be gone, but it made no difference. It was like swimming against the tide.
When I woke up, sadness hit me. The mundanity of the situation in the dream was bittersweet. I felt guilty for being irritable even though it wasn't real.
It's not hard to decipher the meaning of my jelly legs. The prison of circumstances I could have avoided if I'd been candid is all too evident, not to mention the closure that could have come with telling my dad how frightening my childhood home became once he'd left. But I was forced to lie to him about my mum's relationships from the year dot right up to his death against my will. And that's not a position you put a child in, least of all with their other parent.