Dreams are funny things

I relived dad's funeral last night. But this time, he was alive. Very surreal.

I was at home, in Ndola, the town where I grew up in central Africa. The church was supposed to have organised the drinks and the food, but they let me down. So I had had to do everything myself. Mum and dad arrived at the house at dusk, in the landcruiser, just in time. So with only half an hour to spare I sent dad off to buy drinks and a $100 note to change into Kwacha. I found mum curled up on the bed saying she couldnt come to the funeral as she had atrocious diarhoea. I was getting really anxious as dad hadnt even got ready for his funeral yet.
Finally he returned and we were at the Cathedral. He had a glass fronted office there and people were all milling around. We had some spare time so I invited 3 men to come in and chat with dad. I touched his hands. It was so vivid. So real. Real flesh. Real sensation. They were cold and I realised the ominous sign. He needed to rest immediately or blood would start pouring out of him. He had jet lag and was exhausted. I shovveled the men out including one guy who wanted to leave his suitcase in the office. But then I couldnt get dad to relax. He started wandering through the back warehouses of his old office unlocking great barred doors into the empty workshops with their blackened floors to look around nostalgically. Someone else was there. And then this beautiful singing started. Drifting to us from the Cathedral. He was late for his funeral. Dad... we HAVE to go..

Today its so freezing the water in the bird bath is frozen. Smoke from the houses in the village sitting, grey above us. Everything grey. Days and days of grey. I'm supposed to be doing dad's final tax return and am finding everything under the sun to mess around with, but that.