A dreamer, just like dad

That damned alarm clock.

I was talking with Dad, again, and he was younger. I saw a dad that predated me and an energy in him that had faded long before I knew him. Dad in the days of high testosterone. He was smoking. He was talking about boys to me. An he was telling me...

"Think about it Tootsie...Think about his man G~. He doesn't talk so much...sometimes a real hard read. Why do you still think about him? You know that hope for more lives on in your mind and you put it away but it rises back up, doesn't it? I'll tell you why. He's just like ME. Is that what you want? Do you want a man like your Daddio?"

And just then, 5:20am, the alarm clock cuts him off. damn.

There are so many reasons that I thought my dad was exactly the wrong type of man to be with. The music comes up in my ears as my feet pick up their trot down Sheridan toward the lake shore trail. It's that Beyonce tune what became my anthem around January 30 as I was kicking Bruce dust off my feet and thinking about meeting up with this nutty Italian for gelato. G~. "You must not know 'bout me!" Miss B snaps to the beat. I cannot see myself ever speaking this way to G~. Who knows where all this will go but he is my friend. Mostly.

He is a butterfly. The color he brings is the dream of life lived somehow differently. Gently, for a moment or a day, that dream comes to rest on my shoulder, volunteering itself as part of my life. We enjoy the moment of sunshine together but should I turn to touch or hold the butterfly - to offer it a more grounded love or attempt to define the relationship - it alights from me. Just as well. Touch to touch such gossamer wings would be death - to both of us.

I look down at the legs striding over the pavement. I see their strong shape. See my long fingers and tough shoulders. I see myself, the heap of DNA that has made me. Those reasons for not wanting a man like dad came from a mother who refused to pick up tools that might effect a working relationship. And for years her complaints filled me with guilt and shame because in truth, I look just like my dad. It's his cheekbones, dimples, limbs and shoulders echoed in my features.

Sr. G's cold is still sticking and he coughs a bit as we meet up. I must confess to being slightly happy at his convalesence as I've found him much more agreeable to deal with when ill. We listen to Dar sing as the moon comes up over the lake. I give him his birthday present. And we actually talk for a while. In that moment I feel like he could tell me anything and I would be ok with it. He could tell me he's seeing someone or done with me forever and I would accept it. Not like it, but accept it.

"I was looking at your website the other day. Everything about you, your training and experience, is 'artist'. I don't see where your job fits into this. And so why be shy about being artist more and getting art out there more?"

My gosh, he's right.

Almost four years ago we buried dad. At his funeral so many of the buddies from his small town band came forward and shared how they would have never tried to make music if it weren't for Dad. They never would have known quite for sure that, in fact, they have a tin ear. But Dad loved music and dreamed of being a great trombonist. And that dream got wedged into the margins around work that payed. He pursued the dream only to the edge of town. As his family we dealt with the second life and watched it take over all of our schedules.

And here I am, taking a paying job and wedging this art habit in around it. And I let myself get tripped up by...what? People not buying in a tough economy? I too have a second life. I'm just like him; just like Dad. And I think if Daddio were here he'd tell me to seize the dream before it's too late. This is what G~ sees when he looks at me. By his lights, I am the butterfly. He knows I have a spirit that flies and so he does not attempt to grasp at the delicate wings.

I invite him in for tea. I have no TV so we go through my bookshelves. I show him my worm box. He wants to rest his head in my lap again. I rub his shoulders and then feel a hand go around my waiste. And then... well...it's different this time. This time...we laugh.

Sniffling he heads back to his own home. I cannot close my fist on the certainty of any sort of relationship. He is my friend. He is a lover. And tomorrow is another dangerous day in which my brain will try to knit meaning out of a memory.

Don't plan, don't hope, don't fear. Just breathe.