Twice a year after he died, I’d dream about my father. The dreams were so real that I would cry when I’d wake up because it felt like I was with him and I hadn’t wanted it to end. I’d try so hard to get back to sleep, to be with him again. I don’t really believe they were dreams. I believe they were visitations. I know a lot of people will disagree with me and think that’s nonsense. You might have these kinds of dreams, too, and blow them off and say they’re just dreams. That’s fine. But I believe that people we love from our past can visit us. And my dad would do that regularly.
