From the dream center of my brain.
I'm no longer allowed to think or talk about you before bedtime.
Last night Husband and I were reviewing some of Paul's Greatest Hits.
They included when Husband asked if he could marry me and you said, "She's a little excitable. Are you sure you want to deal with that for eternity?"
I know. That's a classic.
I was thinking of other ones.
Like the time when mom and I were talking about tattoos and she asked you if you would consider getting her name tattooed on your arm. You said, "Well, it's a little permanent, isn't it?" You'd been married for over 40 years...
Or the time when you came down here and I was trying to serve you a breakfast burrito. You looked at me and said, "Are you all out of bread?" I said, "No, I have bread. Would you rather have a sandwich than a burrito?" You looked at me as if I was crazy to have even thought he would want something wrapped in a tortilla and said, "Well....YEAH!"
Anyway, we were talking about you right before we went to sleep...
And I dreamt.
I was in your bedroom at home. Standing in front of the closet. I was running my hands over all the shirts hanging there. They smelled like you. That nice, safe, Dad smell. I rolled up in a ball on the floor and started to cry uncontrollably.
It was heartbreaking.
I kept telling myself to wakeup.
Even in a dream it was too much to handle.
When I finally did, there were tear stains on my face and my pillow was soaked.
I'm missing you an extra lot today.
This is the picture of you I have in my head:
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