Dreams have a way of keeping the unfamiliar familiar. My father died when I was just five years old. I spent many years in my youth reliving the same nightmare…a man walking toward me with no face. Oh I was afraid and even more so when I woke. But then again I found solace in two memories of my father.
I was told not to play in the wood pile. I took a fall face first into the nail and as I walked with the board stuck to my head I remember hearing a male’s voice, “Linda, hold her!” Linda is my mother. The instant I felt my mother’s hands grab my waist from behind I saw his arms and the board was on the ground. Dad had pulled it away so fast I hadn’t time to know it was about to happen. I was embraced by his large arms. I never saw his face.
The second is of me crying in a white basinet. It was storming outside. I was an infant. I know how could I remember that far back, but the thing is I do. My father’s hands reached down to pick me up. Again I didn’t see his face. I cannot explain how I know it was my father I just do. Maybe one day more of the five years I had with him will return in my dreams or memories, but for right now Daddy saved me twice when I was little. That’s my story.
William Franklin Simpson Jr 1942-1966