Sometimes, Monday mornings are rough. You know, rolling out of bed groggy while attempting to re-establish weekday routines. Playing out the idea of hooky on a Monday inside your head. Wishing to sink back into your pillow. Little things can feel rushed Monday morning. Like, conversations with your three-year-old. (Almost four-year-old).
Over peanut-buttered-jelly toast and applesauce McKinley discussed her dream to me. And we didn’t rush.
“Were you by the pink and blue hydrangeas last night?” McKinley asked.
I played along, “Oh yes! I was.”
“And did you see Papa? He was playing with me in my dreams last night!” (She is referring to my late father who passed away).
“Oh really?! What were you guys doing?”
“Papa was pushing us on the swings, but I was younger,” says McKinley very grown up.
Sometimes it stirs these bottomless emotions inside me, but other times it brings comfort knowing he visits her. Still keeping us all safe. Still staying close.
~g
