Visit With My Father

Cheryl Miranda

I am standing in the doorway of a small house looking out to the street. I see a car pull up to the curb. My father is driving. I realize I am dreaming. I gain lucidity and remember my dad passed away about a month ago. The car comes to a stop and my father opens the door and steps out. He is wearing his favorite tan ostrich cowboy boots; the ones he was buried in. As he walks the short distance down the sidewalk to the door, I realize he is coming here to talk to me.

My dad walks up the few steps to the porch and comes inside the house. We are standing together in a small sparsely decorated living room. The few pieces of furniture here are old and worn. I am immediately taken back by my father’s appearance. He doesn’t look good at all. He is pale and looks ill. I get a negative feeling from him; like he is of a lower energy. I am surprised because everyone else who has ever visited me after they have died has always appeared younger and healthier than when they were last alive. Some visitors have even appeared as evolved beings of light or energy.

My father and I stand a few feet apart facing each other. Neither of us speaks. When he was alive I always felt guarded and that I needed to protect myself whenever I was around him. I never knew when he would lash out at me verbally or physically. I feared him until I was in my mid twenties. After that I felt sorry for him. But now, I feel a deep heart connection with him. I am filled with love for him. He appears beaten down and raw.

For the first time, I feel safe with him. I decide to speak first. I speak from a depth of vulnerability I have never spoken to him from before. I tell him I always loved him. I feel this from the depths of my heart and soul. As I say this, I remember being a little girl deeply wanting him to show me attention and tell me that he loved me, but he rarely reciprocated. Now standing in front of me he humbly and sweetly says he has always loved me too. We stand together in the silence. The love between us is palpable. We look at each other. There is a lot we could discuss, I have many questions, but we don’t talk. The love we feel between us is more important. There is no reason to say anything more. We both know how things were. I accept what he has said to me. I have waited so long. I know it is true; he has always loved me. Nothing else he ever did or didn’t do matters now.

My father shifts the dialog and goes on to tell me, “They have been working on me.” I ask him, “How?” He chuckles and says, “They are helping me to grow up.” I take this as an acknowledgement and apology for his actions and inaction while he was alive. He abruptly tells me he has to go now and he won’t be able to come back, and then he vanishes.

The visit was too short. I have the sense that there were numerous guides needed to make this connection happen. I am moved by my father’s visit, my heart is full and I wake up saying to myself, “Love is all that matters.”

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