A Visit In A Dream

Bob King Diaries; O8.o4.2o18

Yesterday was Bob’s grandson’s 18th Birthday.
The kiddo was up in Port Townsend, Washington, at an acoustic music summit with his papa.
The mama, was home in Portland, doing the Hospice Nurse thing.
One of the mama’s oldest, dearest, friends died yesterday. A lovely woman, who had driven from Portland down to Bend, in the summer of 2000, to visit the then pregnant mama.
The mama, hearing earlier in the day, from her friend’s spouse about the death, tried desperately to get off of work for the afternoon and evening.
She wanted to sit quietly by herself; to honor the passing of her friend. To visit her memories of Bob, who died a few months back.
But there were staffing issues, and a high volume of Hospice patient need. She not only couldn’t take the day for her own private needs and grieving, she ended up having to work a little overtime.
It’s what happens, it is the business of Death & Dying professionals.
The mama went to bed late, unable to connect with any of her living people. There were no tears, just exhaustion and numbness.
And then Bob King came to her in a dream in the night.
He went with her to a Quaker Meeting (which never, ever, would have really happened). And during that Silent Meeting for Worship, Bob rose and spoke. (This also, never, ever, would have possibly happened.)
In the dream, Bob rose from his seat, and told the group of gathered people about his love for his daughter. About his appreciation for her.
It was brief, and quiet, and sincere.
She woke late in the morning, and only remembered the dream after she had been up for a while.
In that dream, Bob had been the steady, quiet, sincere, loving presence he had always been for his daughter. Comforting and real.


One thought on “A Visit In A Dream

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s