My Name Is T.E.C. I Still Exist.

An essay about my father, Thomas Edward Curda.

I see you every now and then. In my dreams sometimes. At first, when it all went down, it was constant. It was at the little ranch house, in the kitchen, that black and white tiled kitchen with spots of red, a massacre of cow after cow after cow. The black and white tiles. Black and white counters. Black and white cabinets. The cow tea kettle. The cow coffee sign. The cow salt-and-pepper shakers. I suppose it was no coincidence that she was obsessed with cows. But the red. I’m not sure where that came from.

Those dreams, in that little black and white and red cow massacre kitchen in that little ranch house that was the center of my youth, those dreams came to me each week. Every dream the same. You, sitting at the island that her father built, the center of that little cow massacre kitchen, you sitting on one of those four legged bar stools, your blue, vacant eyes an icy stare behind thick glasses. And me, small, insignificant, frightened little me, sitting across from you in haste, dropping my purse and my keys on that massive island in the middle of our cow massacre kitchen. Me sitting across from you, knowing why you were angry and feeling that gnawing sensation in the pit of my gut that threatened to end my life right along with yours.

You forgot about my appointment, you’d say. Again, you’d tell me.

And I would sit there, across from you, staring at you, feeling the teeth grind around my gut and the iron fist clench my heart. Because you were right. I did forget. I wasn’t there. I was running late from a haircut or a drink with friends or a date with some random guy that currently occupied my universe. Or I was living halfway around the world and missed my flight. Or there wasn’t even a flight to catch because neither of you wanted me home in the first place. Not then. Not for this.

I wasn’t there.

So the first several months after it all went down, that was the dream. Us in the cow massacre kitchen, you angry with me for being late for an appointment, one of endless appointments that would only serve to poison and kill you in the end anyway. And me with that gnawing in my gut. Me with my guilt for not being there.

A year or two passes, and the dream changes. You’re not old anymore. Icy blue eyes still look at me beneath thick glasses, but they’re no longer vacant. They’re no longer dull and lifeless. No, now they’re bright and twinkling. You were always known for the twinkles in your eyes. The humor lurking behind your austere gaze. The lightheartedness hiding behind such a serious nature. In this dream, you don’t speak. You don’t say anything. But you’re not old anymore. And I know you weren’t even old when it all went down. It’s the sickness and the poison that made you old. The sickness and the poison that made your hair white at first and then completely fall out. The sickness and the poison that gave you sores in your mouth and made your skin crawl with millions of tiny, fiery insects, hurting you so badly you couldn’t bear to be touched. But you weren’t actually old. No, in reality, you were young. Too young. I suppose we were all too young.

The dream changes a year or two after it all went down. You are no longer old, you are back to the you I grew up with, dark hair, happily robust belly, cherry cheeks and ears. Hair covering your face. I’ve always found it amusing that I never cared for men with hair on their faces. Maybe I’ve spent my life looking for the opposite of you. Maybe I’m afraid that if I find you in someone else, I might lose you again. You’re on a bike in this dream. No words. Just laughter. And she’s there, too. Laughing right along with you, laughing that special laugh that only the two of you understand. In this dream I know you’re okay. I know you’re happy. I know you still think of us even from that place where you now exist, a place that my insignificant, limited human mind can’t even fathom.

A year or two after that there are no more dreams. You disappear completely. Gone to that time and place that my limited human mind wants to believe in but can’t totally understand or acknowledge.

You disappear. Finally.

You were gone before but you still existed. Now, you exist only in photos and memories. But no longer in dreams.

It didn’t matter much that the dreams ended. For me it was a relief. Because I could move on and not think about you. About us. About you and her. About you and me and my sister and my family and my nephews and all the things that have happened since it went down, all the things that you may know about from where you are now but you’ll never actually have the chance to experience with us. Your daughters. Your wife. Your family. We do it all on our own now, learning to live in a world where you no longer exist. And since it all went down it’s been a day-by-day learning process. Some days, most days actually, are better than others. But some days, oh some days, I wish I could hear your goofy laugh or see the twinkles in your icy blue eyes. It’s not the same, you know. Memories. Pictures. Dreams.

It’s just not the same.

What they say isn’t true. The old adage that life goes on. That time heals. It’s not true. I mean, sure, life goes on. It continues, but it’s different. And time, well, time makes things easier. Time helps you cope. But to say that time heals, no, it’s not true. Because there’s a picture or a joke or a book or a car or a roller coaster or a look in someone’s eye or a feeling and BAM, it all comes back. It happens all over again.

There’s a book I was reading recently. A book I know you’d like and I know that, if you were still here, you’d have read. And now, six years after it all went down, the dream changes again. The dream went from anger and guilt in the cow massacre kitchen to happiness and laughter on bikes to dreams nonexistent to this. A new dream. Which can only be described as a father and a daughter caught together in a rare moment of peace. I don’t remember where we were. Time and place are fuzzy, inconsequential details. I do remember your smile. The twinkles in your eyes. Me sitting across from you. A table between us. And the book I was reading in my reality making an appearance in this dream, resting on the table.

You ever read it? I ask you.

No, you say. But it looks really interesting �" I’ll take it with me, you tell me.

Then the dream shifts and I wonder if it’s actually a dream or if you are really here, right here with me, back for a brief moment, a heartbeat in the midst of a lifetime.

How’s your mother? You ask me.

I think I blinked. Surprised at the question. And the look in your eyes.

She’s okay, I tell you.

Tell her I still love her, you say.

Then you take the book in your hands. You give me your trademark salute. You walk away.

And a split second later I am in my bed, drowning in sheets and pillows, wondering where you went. Until it dawns on me that it wasn’t real. It was just another dream.

But maybe that’s what was real about it. The dream is the reality. You don’t exist here. Not in my reality. Not in my world. But in my dreams, you still exist.

Somehow, somewhere, you still exist.