A Girl...

What Counts

Last night I had a dream in which for some reason my family and I staged my funeral, even though I wasn't dead. I think I'd almost died or something and they'd had the whole services planned in anticipation of my unfortunate demise, and because the mortuary room was already reserved and they'd already gone to the trouble of inviting people, we figured we might as well just go on with it and see what happened.

The day of the funeral I was there in the audience with everyone else, and there was no deception about the fact that I was not actually dead (a few attendees were quite surprised to see me sitting there), so it ended up being more of a tribute, like a Kennedy Center thing, which I think is totally awesome because I hate it when they don't bother to honor people until after they're gone and not about to hear all the wonderful things people say about them. Also, Kennedy Center honorees get those totally cool/gay rainbow medals.

So anyway, I'm sitting there at my own funeral waiting for the services to start and I'm figuring my family members will say a few things, my grandpa will give some grossly inappropriate speech about Jesus and how I am a child of God, and maybe a couple friends will tell some stories. The audience, however, was filled not with my nearest and dearest but with old people I mostly didn't recognize but knew somehow as relatives. The only person my own age was Natalie Jensen, my best friend from fourth-grade, whom I haven't seen since I was about fourteen. (She said, "Oh! You're not dead!" and I said, "Nope!")

My dad starts off the program by welcoming everyone to the services. My dad, though not exactly shy, is generally quiet in public, and it surprises me that he's up on stage at all, let alone emceeing the event. He says a few words and then he walks off stage for a bit and picks up an acoustic guitar and a harmonica on one of those neckbrace things, and returns to center stage where he starts playing and singing, "You Are My Sunshine," for one, because that's the only thing I've ever heard him play (maybe because that's what I always request), but also a few other things. This is very strange because although my dad owns three guitars and I've seen two pictures of him actually holding them in an I'm-playing-the-guitar position, I've never received confirmation that he knows--or ever knew--how to play. But in my dream he does, and it is awesome and it makes me cry because he's singing right at me as I sit there in a folding chair at my own funeral watching my dad make a spectacle of himself on my behalf.

After the music, Dad went on, telling stories, showing pictures (slideshow!), and doing what amounted to an entire one-man show about what a good person I "was." This will never make as much sense to any of you as it does to me because you don't know my dad, but in a nutshell, the dream was extraordinary because it was a startlingly accurate reflection of the emotional atmosphere surrounding my dad: He seems on the surface stand-offish and unconnected and unconcerned because he doesn't overreact to every little thing like most people; he's never, for instance, all up in my grill about what I'm doing and why and how come I'm not doing this or that--an attitude that, although annoying, can seem like the best kind of proof that someone cares. No, where he shines is when something is important and serious and heavy, when something matters. He is the voice of reason, the backbone, the first-aid, the proverbial shoulder, the oversized "you're in good hands with Allstate" hands.

So today I woke up feeling all warm and fuzzy about my dad and about the details in the dream that reflected not him but recent events and conversations from my life. Things have been different around here lately--good different--but they haven't always been easy and peachy, and I spent a good part of the weekend stressing over how both of my parents would react to something I've done that is, to put it mildly, "dishonorable." As it turns out, they're okay, we're okay, and everything else will be okay too. I know this because today my dad sent me an email that said, down to the letter, exactly what I needed him to say; I really couldn't have written it better myself. If you look up "unconditional" in the dictionary, there's his picture, right there.

So, yeah. I guess that's that. My dad. Sigh.