anniversary dream

On the eve of the first anniversary of my father's death, I dreamed that he had returned to be with us, appearing suddenly during the afternoon amidst the apple trees in the back garden of my parent's house, where my mother, my sisters, and myself were building a bonfire on which to burn this year's prunings.
He was trim, upright, relaxed; upon his face was nothing of the fear and worry that had been written across it so painfully during the last days in hospital before his death, but instead, pleasure in seeing us, delight at being once again in his beloved garden.
We each ran to him, crying his name, eager to touch him, to hold him, to persuade ourselves that life ran once more through his veins; that death indeed held no dominion.