It was two years br since he sat at the table br and ate his last breakfast. br br Early morning dream, he br appears in a white gown br and tells me he is not dead. br br As I gaze at him, he is br sitting in a chair, the room br so cold, empty, yet light br br He seemed to float up br from the chair, his face br an undistinquished fuse br of his body whole br br He reaches out his br hand to me, br telling me not to worry, br I could not have saved him br br Between whisps of clouds, br the morning rain br began as it did that day he left br br And my father wiped his eyes br and told me not to cry, br I suddenly awoke, my eyes br completely wet.