I am hanging out quite comfortably with my father, enjoying some friendly moments, when I recall that he is dead, and therefore I am dreaming. I find it fascinating that his presence is so undeniably real. This is my Daddy, for sure. Affectionately, I reach out and put my arm around his back. I then turn to face him saying, “Daddy, we are here together, and I am looking right into your eyes. Do you know that you are dead?”
I had thought to learn something of the Spirit World. By his reaction, I can see my question has reached him somewhat abstractly, as if it’s a little unsettling or distracting, but doesn’t mean to him what it means to me. It is as if he hadn’t quite thought of it in that way. He says nothing, but as if in answer, he leads me down a small dingy hallway into a cluttered storage room, and rummages among a jumble of dusty objects on a table, extracting a tray which he hands to me.
On the tray lie the breathtakingly fragile remains of his parents; two tiny skeletons reduced to miniature size by the intense heat of the crematory kiln. They are so fragile that I fear they could crumble to dust or blow away if I breathe on them, yet he hands me the tray with a brusque, almost careless gesture which only underscores the terrible delicacy of its contents.
I recall that his mother died when he was barely a man, while his father died much later, when he was middle-aged, so the sight of them lying together here underscores that we are in another dimension where time and space behave differently. I have a wide-ranging reaction to his offering, including strong fear, yet somehow fear is not the main thing here. I hold the tray for some moments, saying, “Pretty scary, huh?” He doesn’t offer to take it back, so I carefully replace it on the table as he walks off into the shadows.