Chapter 6 - Dreams
I dream of Papi more nights than I don’t.
It’s always the same.
He’s back. Not in some miracle kind of way. Just…back. He’s been sick—he always has been in the dream, but he survived it. The house smells like pine again. He's not in the greatest mood. His frustration echoes down the hallway like nothing ever tried to steal him from us.
He’s not dying.
That’s the strangest part.
In the dream, we all know he’s sick. We see it in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the way he presses a hand to his ribs and looks angry at the mirror when he thinks no one’s looking. We worry in silence. But we treat him like he’s fine. Because he is. He’s here. Sitting at the head of the table. Teasing me about the way I eat like a rabbit. Telling me to toughen up.
He’s not dead.
And he’s not dying.
I wake up every time with that truth clutched tight in my chest like a lifeline, until the ceiling in the apartment that's too big for me above me comes into focus and the quiet is too quiet. Reality rushes in like a riptide.
Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t about his body at all.
Maybe it’s about the parts of him that never left.
Because he’s still here.
In the way I grind my teeth when I make a mistake.
In the way I push myself until exhaustion on the bike feels like victory.
In the risks I take without measuring the fall. In the decisions I make too fast, too sharp, like hesitation is a weakness that might get me killed.
I’m still hard on myself.
Still chasing perfection like it’s oxygen.
Still impulsive.
Still reckless in ways I pretend are brave.
Still scared.
And I still want to jump ship the second the waters get rough. Before anyone can see me drown.
Maybe it’s about admitting that his voice—his strength, his flaws, his impossible expectations—never stopped living inside me.
He’s not dying in my dreams because he isn’t gone.
He’s woven into my bones. Into the marrow. Into the pulse that drives me forward even when I’m not sure where I’m running to.
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