I know I said I would be here, hon, last night but all the schlep of the day drained my reserve and I fell asleep with ice on my ankle and dishes on the counter.

So, last night I had an ancestor dream, and I’m going to tell you about it.

Deb and I were wandering around, looking for somewhere to get dinner.  An old Chicago neighborhood, with rows of storefront windows facing each other across a wide street – like, say, Roscoe Village or Sunnyside.  We saw a line of people waiting outside a little family place, glowing with lights and only a few tables – and I recognized someone.

The shape of his back, his neck, his head – it was Pop.  He didn’t see me as I crossed the street.  He was talking to Anatole.

I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned and recognized me.  His face was so relieved – overjoyed, really.  He opened his arms and hugged me.  It was so comforting, so unambiguous.  He held me so I wouldn’t be scared.  And I wasn’t, not at all.

We didn’t say anything, but I understood he was going in to the restaurant and I wasn’t invited.  Inside, I could see long, community tables with candles and violets in vases.  I knew I would have to leave him there.  He went into the dining room and I walked away with Deb.

I guess it is no surprise that he visited.  I want so much to ask him what to do now – even though it wouldn’t really matter what he said.  I don’t think the ancestors know what will happen.  I think they just carry the durability of love to us, from its larger dimension – the dimension they embody in our dreams so we can understand it.  He wanted me to know it endures, all the love we confuse and displace to protect ourselves.  The ancestors do understand, even if they don’t have the answers.  They remember what it meant not to know.