August #3

I woke up
and started crying.
I could not stand
the awful dream
that tried to tell me
my father died.
The thought was awful,
the dream too graphic,
and I had to creep
out of bed like a four year old
and step down the hall gently
to watch my father sleep and snore.
I have grown too old and too big
to jump into bed with him
and whisper my worries
into his old ear, big and unattractive.
But I am not old enough
that I can do without him,
my daddy, my bestest.
I hold on
and hope
that dreams are just flights
of frightened imagination.