“But you won’t remember this,” I said, the tears starting to roll gently down my cheeks. “It’ll just be like any other morning.”

“No morning with you is ever like any other morning.”

“What if we just stay in here,” I said. “I can make us pancakes. I can make us anything.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, a stack of pancakes, impossibly buoyant and fluffy, materialized next to my dad’s elbow, nudging him gently.

“We can’t.” He gave me a sad smile. “You know we can’t.”

“Let me give you this. Please.”

“But you were right, Rose. I won’t remember this, not really. I’ll wake up happy, but I won’t know why.” He smiled again, but this time it was just a practiced movement of his mouth, no warmth or feeling behind it.

“There are already so many things I’m not going to remember,” he whispered, almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud. Not to me. “I don’t want to add too much to the list.”

I wonder now if maybe it was easier for him to say that, to let me know that he’s afraid, knowing that he wouldn’t have to face me in the morning with the knowledge that he broke down in front of his daughter, just a little. Part of me thinks that I should ask him about it in the waking world, let him know that it’s okay, that he can lean on me, that he doesn’t have to pretend he’s okay just because he’s the parent. But maybe he wants to be the parent. To move forward as normally as possible. To pretend that nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, the words barely getting out, my tears being carried away by the wind of light.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, wiping my cheek with his thumb. “Just promise me you won’t dream your life away.”

“I promise.”

We sat there for what felt like a few seconds, a few hours, a few lifetimes, his big, warm hand holding my face, tears gathering in his eyes, reflecting mine. The breeze swept over us, that impossible mix of cool air and warm light, somehow given shape and weight. No matter what my dad said, I wanted to stay in that moment forever, sheltered by his dreamworld and the frozen-time feeling I always have when dreamdiving, even if there’s some conscious part of me aware of the fact that time is passing, rapidly, as I sleep.

After either another thousand lifetimes or instantly, my dad broke the silence.

“Promise me one more thing.”

“Anything.”

“Make your homemade orange butter for the pancakes?”

And I did. He ate every last bite.

July 3rd, 2017

Dear Rose,