Dream Journal #4

My grandfather is standing in front of the west door, by the garage.  I go over to him and he reaches his hand out to me as he did every time I’d see him for the last 15 years of his life.  I shake his hand and it has warmth to it, which surprises me.  He tells me I’m looking healthy and that he likes what I’ve done with the house.  He’s especially happy that I’ve left the giant “B” on the wall next to the east door.  I tell him it’ll always be his house.  Then I tell him I miss him and he hugs me – something he never did when he was alive – and he tells me everything is going to be okay.  He’s doing fine and everything is going to be okay.  I’m crying now, harder than I’ve ever cried in my life.  I’m crying like a feral child, lost and alone and hurting so bad and he’s telling me not to worry about it, it’ll all be okay.  I feel the comfort radiating out of him, warm and calming, and I cry until I’m empty.

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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