Give me this moment

I heard his voice last night. I was dreaming. His voice was on the answering machine. At first, I was surprised, and then I dialed the number again. It felt good to hear him. I dialed again and again, each time happier than the time before to hear the voice of my father. It was my first dream in which I knew he was gone, but still I felt love when I awoke.

I've learned this year about love after death. I've learned where love is protected, and that it continues to grow. I've learned that memories are tranquil places which no thing can mar, no storm upturn. I've learned to stand still and feel the delight of sunlight on my skin or a breeze across my cheek. I've learned the language of my father. I've learned that the music is everywhere if I just listen. It's in the mingled songs of the birds, of croaking frogs, a mare calling to her foal, the breeze through the tree tops, even in the steady the hum of traffic rolling past. I've learned to look into the reflection in a glass-smooth puddle or pond, and there I'll find the sky. I've learned to be quiet for those moments because in them, I feel him. And I've learned that even in my dreams, I feel his love.