I dreamt this morning about my father, who passed away in January. Perhaps he was in my mind because I’ll be heading to Florida next month for the unveiling of his grave marker. I’m not sure of the reason, because the dream wasn’t about his death. Actually, the dream didn’t seem to be about much of anything.

Irene and my son and I were visiting my parents in Florida. We were driving to some local tourist trap, but I wasn’t yet aware what it was. At the door, I showed my tickets, but 1) my Mom wasn’t there, at least momentarily, visiting the rest room or something, 2) I had many more tickets than were actually necessary for us to enter, which had to be sorted out, and 3) a young boy whom I did not know was with us, who couldn’t have been a stand-in for my son, since my son was there at his current age. Not sure what significance any of that had. After I handed in the correct number of tickets and the boy wandered off, we went inside.

It turned out that we were visiting a farm, and as the crowd of tourists gathered in the farmhouse living room, the farmer explained the basics of how they harvest, make bread, etc., which I found irritating, since I’m surrounded by farmers in real-life. I have been both here and in our previous home in Maryland, so for at least 20 years, I’ve found nothing touristy about visiting a farm. Those are simply our neighbors, doing their daily work. If I wanted to visit a farm, I could just walk down the street. So I kept thinking, why would anyone think Irene and I would find this experience new and different?

But in the dream, I said nothing aloud, just looked at the photos on the wall and the tools in the corners of the room, while Dad sat on the couch, appearing as he had around 10 years before he died, taking it all in with a smile.

When it was time to leave, the five of us piled in the car, with Dad driving. As he started pulling out of our parking space, Irene shouted for him to stop, that he was about to hit a car behind us, but he just kept rolling, and Irene got louder, and he still kept rolling, and Irene got louder still, and eventually he stopped the car a mere whisker before a collision. I don’t recall a driving situation like that from real life, or Dad ever having an collision, so I have no idea where that dream image came from either.

When I woke, I thought it was a strange dream to be having about Dad. Because there was no sense of loss. No mourning. No surprise at seeing him. (I write that because my dreams about the dead are often filled with surprise. I generally ask the person, often one of my grandmothers, “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” And she merely smiles and we go on with the dream. But not this time.) And no apparent catalyst either, unless the fact that I think about him often and miss him can be considered a catalyst.

I guess I should just be grateful for the visit, and stop over-thinking it.