I dreamed I was attending my best friend’s wedding in a house beside a wide, pebbly beach. My father was there. As the guests began to leave I caught his arm and asked if we could walk on the beach together before he left. He laughed and said that I could always walk on the beach. “Not with you,” I replied, and he nodded at the truth of my words. So we made our way down the wooden steps of the house and out onto the sunset painted beach. I saw green anemones shrunken tight away from the air and prodded them with my bare toes, giggling “look, squishies!” as I had done so often as a little girl. I glimpsed jellyfish drifting lazily in the rising tide and smelled the salt water breeze as it ruffled my hair. At one point as I walked at his side, my father held out his arm and shoved me playfully so that I tripped on the sand crusted beach rocks and stumbled into the shallow water. As the icy liquid hit my skin I gasped and glared, bending down to splash a scoop back at him. He laughed. I laughed. It was a good dream, though short was our time together. I would give anything to have my father back for a day, an hour, a single moment, but at least sometimes the dreams are kind to me.

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