Lasagna and Dad

My dad visited me last night.

He gave me one of his classic big bear hugs, the kind would envelope you in warmth from head to toes. He said, "My God, it's good to see you, it's been such a long time. I can't wait to catch up."

I was preparing a lasagna, two single servings (homemade, of course). I took it out of the oven and the aroma filled the kitchen. Of course my dad loved food of all kinds, especially lasagna, which he asked for his birthday dinner every year for decades.

I put the finishing touches on, and we sat down at the table in the kitchen of the house I grew up in Sheboygan Falls. As we sat at the table, Dad said, "Well, I wish your sister could join us, but I understand that she has to work."

We tucked in to the meal, and the scene closed.

I awoke with a sense of being visited, of missing my dad, of truly seeing his spirit. And after a few minutes I realized that he was right -- my sister was working that evening, she was working right that minute.

 I texted her to let her know that Dad had visited, and we had the nicest text conversation about it, as if Dad had just left my kitchen.

These visitations are bittersweet, reminding me he is gone, but knowing he is near.