Last night I dreamed of my father. I dream of him often, and they’re always lovely interactions.
He is fine, as the dead always are. It’s those who are left behind who have to patch up their hearts and lives.
For a year before my father became ill, I had anxiety something bad was going to happen to one of my parents. It did. Did I have a premonition? I can’t confirm or deny. Maybe I’m just at the age where the elders are in their last innings and I’m more aware of their mortality.
However, I do know that connecting to dead is a skill of mine, and I have never been more dialled in since my father popped his clogs.
The last time I spoke to my father was on the day he died. It was over the phone, as I was with my brother in hospital, who was recovering from heart surgery and about two hours away from being diagnosed with cancer.
‘Come and haunt me,’ I said to Dad. It was partly a joke and part reality. My father was a deeply spiritual man, who also talked to the dead.
On the Sunday night after he died, I dreamed that I saw him in the shed of his father’s, who was also a craftsman and toy maker. They were fitting a clock mechanism into the body of a grandfather clock that they had made together.
I was watching father and son work in unison, as my beloved and now passed grandmother came down the garden path with a plate of triangle cut sandwiches.
When I told my mother about the dream, she was stunned and then told me that the last piece my father finished was a miniature grandfather clock.
She gave it to me when she moved, as she thought my Dad was trying to tell me something in the dream.
My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.
This is the clock, sitting on top of the clock that belonged to my grandparents, with a little mouse from a beloved family friend.
The clock that belonged to my grandparents doesn’t work, except when someone dies.
When Dave’s mother died, it ticked for a week.
When my grandmother died, it ticked for three days. I’m not surprised it was so short a time. My grandmother couldn’t wear watches, as her body would stop them, due to her electromagnetism of something. Spooky lady!
When my Tansy’s dear friend died, it ticked for a week, at random.
When Dad died, it ticked for ten days and only when Mum was in the house.
I now think it’s a spirit barometer. While the energy of the person is still here, the clock goes. When they’ve moved on, the clock stops working.
So my father kept his promise to haunt me and I couldn’t be happier to see him so well and peaceful in my dreams.
Life is a funny thing.