The other day, I dreamt about walking into an old style English pub with a rock climbing wall at the back, a dog on a leash, and my father. It’s been 10 months since my father died. This was the first I had dreamt about him in this entire time, which is highly unusual.
I dream about people a lot, particularly those I interact with. If you’ve ever told me your name and had a conversation with me, chances are, you’ve passed me by in a dream. I’m not sure why this is. Maybe it is something to do with how my mind resolves the impressions that people make on me and how they change as relationships develop. My father has been a figure in my dreams a lot, throughout my life. After he died they stopped, cold.
It seems suitable that I would dream about him again in Copenhagen, the place Dad once declared his “favourite city” even though he’d never been here, presumably because it was the one place that had a song he liked to sing every now and then.
A year ago, I spoke to my father from Copenhagen, and he was anxious about meeting the new guy, which was expressed in his wanting to know if chilli crab was something he and Mum could feed him when they met. It is a signature celebratory dish of the Winfred household, and Asians obsessively feed people they love, and this obsession increases exponentially if you are a parent.
Flemming and my father met briefly in hospital, two days before Dad went under the sedation he never woke from. I am ineffably grateful for this.
We never had chilli crab in the eight month stretch that I was in Singapore though, six of which Flemming was there for. We’ll be going back during the Christmas period. It may be time to change this.