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I dreamed of my father.  He was with me just now, as I remember him when I was a tweenager, back when I had a pageboy haircut and wore caramel-coloured velour shirts.

He was standing on the grass in the courtyard, much like this one only the buildings were taller and there were more trees.  I knew almost everyone here.

He was standing still as I told him why I was sad.  He listened to me and it felt kind.

When I awoke, my heart was pounding hard and I suddenly knew the reason for my sadness.  (I brought it on myself.) He didn’t have to say a word.

Thanks, Dad.

(then, of course, my brother calls me just now to ask me a question about him.)