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Kulindahr

Who's in whose space?

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If anyone had told me that things like this would happen, I would have said, "Uh-huh -- sure".


So I'm nearly asleep one night, with the house cozy and everything outside dark and damp -- that's what civilization's about, keeping our the dark and damp, right? My dog Bammer is curled against my feet, and I'm wondering if I'm going to fall asleep before the wind the meteorologists forecast arrives to keep me awake. I sort of hope I do; my sleep has been off a little of late.

You know that feeling of the wash of cold air as someone opens the door to the shower, or ducks into the tent from a frosty morning, or trundles into the kitchen with an armload of groceries when it's all of a handful of degrees above freezing out, and you don't even have a shirt on? It was like that, what hit me, and then I was suddenly awake. Someone was climbing in -- but not besides me, and not on top of me: through me. I felt the cold draft of air as the covers lifted, and felt someone else moving into my space, and the mattress sinking under the weight.

And there was a grumpy mumble, or maybe just the sense of a grumpy mumble, "You're in my space".


Yep -- my dad, again. If I'd ever thought about him 'haunting' my mom and I after he died, this isn't the sort of thing I would have predicted. I would have expected to hear him from around the corner, after lunch, saying, "Take a break!", when none of us had been doing anything all day. I would have thought to encounter him in the kitchen in the middle of the night, getting a glass of water and sneaking a half-piece of bread with some peanut butter.

But no, he comes invading/sharing my space -- again. My space.


Dad, it's not your space any more.
For that matter, it won't be mine much longer, either -- mom is selling the house, hopefully soon.
I don't know what kind of space departed dads take up, but it totally destroys my sleep when you try to share.
Go say hi to Mom -- she's at Five Rivers.
Yes, I miss you. But whether you're some weird construct bubbling up out of my grey matter, or a psychic echo of the past, or really there, I can't deal with this.


After a few million hours of trembling, frozen in place, I notice that the cold draft is gone. Bammer is licking the back of my knees and poking my butt with his nose: something woke him up, and he wants to know if I'm okay.

Yeah, Bammer, I'm okay. Let's go grab a snack, then come back and curl up in our space.



Later, Dad.
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