The wind was the worst, not the cold nor the dark. Those were effects without consequence. For what did a ghost care about the cold when there was no flesh to feel its bite? And why should a phantom fear the dark, when it disguised a dreadful lack of substance? But there was something unsettling about the wind reaching through your innards to rustle the bed curtains, treating you as if you weren’t there, which of course, you weren’t. In death Marley had grown to hate the rustle of dry leaves in the grass and the whisper of new leaves in the treetops. He would cringe when he saw the breeze lift the curls on a child’s head or push waves along the river. For a ghost could hear and a ghost could see, but touch escaped with the last breath–the body’s last commerce with wind. Here in the hall outside his old bedchamber, Marley could hear a draft whistle through the gaps in the door frame, a reminder of all that he had lost. It had taken him a long time to find his way back to this room and his old partner. Maybe this visit would ease his suffering some, shorten his chain by a link or two. If he’d been among the living, Jacob Marley would have drawn a deep breath before he took the next step; but, the times being what they were, he shrugged his shoulders and stepped through the wall. Inspired by A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Outside my window, insanity reigns; the world has gone crazy with springtime. Birds warble in symphonic abandon as flowering trees trill arias of demented color. Not to be outdone, the breeze tickles arpeggios on the new leaves, while bumblebees hum sweet, dirty blues in the redbuds. And the grass…the grass screams GREEN. But here at my kitchen table I shiver, lost in the company of Dickens’ miser and the ghosts of problems past. Life has been difficult lately and it has me sore in spirit and mood. When I get like this, my father, dead these 13 years and often lamented, drops onto a bleacher seat in my psyche and kibitzes from sidelines. Dad rarely offered advice when he was alive, but since his passing he’s got an opinion about everything.
This should come as no surprise. After he died, with heartbreaking suddenness, he visited my dreams: once to touch base, once to leave instructions, and once to make me smile. A less enlightened person might have thought they were losing touch with reality, but I had long been a student of Mr. Dickens and was familiar with “ghostly” visitations. Dad came back when I needed him the most and it looks like he’s going to stick around a while.
Like all good ghost stories, my father appeared in my dreams on three separate occasions. The first visit came shortly after he died. Shock and stress had decimated my immune system and it seemed like I had been sick for weeks. Then one night as I fitfully dozed, I dreamt I was driving along the familiar gravel road that leads to the family farm. It must have been midsummer for the sunlight was white and the roadside was dusty. Close to the mailbox at the end of our lane, my father stood waiting, dressed in his old khaki work clothes. Stopping the car, I rolled down the window. Even as an apparition, he had to bend his long frame to see my face. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft with concern. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m going to be fine.” And I was.
The weeks passed and the difficulty of making farming decisions as a committee of siblings had jangled every familial nerve. With five sets of feet trying to fill Dad’s shoes, toes were bound to get stepped on. Elbows were going to get thrown. Falling asleep one night while nursing my bruises, a dream carried me to the state capitol in Jefferson City, where I stood in the rotunda and gazed up at the dome. On the third floor leaning over the balustrade was Dad. “Don’t spend any more money on the farm,” he called. If only decisions were always that simple.
Dad’s final visit came many months after his death. My younger son had graduated from the police academy and in my dream, family and friends were leaving a restaurant in a loud and celebratory mood. As we strolled along saying our goodbyes, a boat of a car, all gleaming fins and shiny chrome, tore into the parking lot. Accelerating into a perfect donut, the driver spun the behemoth to a screeching stop right at my toes. Behind the wheel my father grinned with a twenty-something smile I had only seen in old black and white photos. “You’d better watch out,” I told him. “Your grandson is a policeman now and you could get in trouble.” Hearing him laugh was a gift, a tonic. “First he’ll have to catch me,” he said.
Even after several years, the dreams of my dad are still vivid. And still a comfort when that father-shaped hole in my heart starts to ache. But I also use those dreams as existential Post It Notes to remind me of truths about myself that I have, on occasion, misplaced. Charles Dickens described Scrooge as “secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.” Accumulated hurts from his past had isolated him in his present and shut the door on his future. It took the ghosts of Christmas to remind him of the man he was when he danced at Mr. Fezziwig’s and made plans for a life with Belle. In the same way, dreaming of my dad made me realize me that I am not the only arbiter of my worth. In my parents’ eyes, I was a person lovable, capable and deserving of compassion. Now on the bleak days when I look in the mirror and see nothing to care for, I remember the respect my mom and dad had for my judgment and abilities and their sincere desire for my life to go well. And, Dad, if ever I forget that I hope you’ll drop by, my dreams are always open.
Being Dorothy 