I saw my father in my dream last night.

His presence, his face.
The warm feeling of having a father
again,
of having roots.

I don’t remember the dream,
but I do know that I miss the man.
I was happy to see him.

Hands that knew
how to build a fire,
how to oil and clean a rifle,
how to use a hammer,
and how to make the guitar sing.

I listened to some of his old songs this morning,
and I cried.

It’s been more than 5 years now,
and I still miss the man,
my father.

A hard-working man,
a simple man,
a man whose son I’m proud to be.