I hadn’t spoken to him in years, hadn’t seen him since I was 4 and yet his death reached to the bone. There is no way to avoid cliche when it slaps you in the face and in the events that led to my godfathers death, the slaps kept up a rapid samba. There was no done deal and no quick “ripping off the bandaid moment”. I never believed in ghosts or life after death and I still don’t; to this day I write off the following events as my subconscious trying to bring me a semblance of closure. However there is no denying the absurdity of the following events and the eeriness that accompanies this story; thus I leave the truth in the your hands.

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Two weeks is all it took, two weeks to convey eight years of silence, eight years of missed birthdays and important milestones-two weeks to ask for forgiveness. Dreams still elude even the most educated scientists; there is no set theory as to what dreams actually mean but in those two weeks I could have been convinced that they were a way of communicating with the dead.

During his lifetime my godfather was a gambler and a smoker, a fact which was not abandoned in my dreams. We sat across from each other in a dark room, everything was fuzzy around the edges but had you asked me to explain the room at the time I could have given you a clear and concise answer. We sat around a simple wooden table- no decoration on or around the table. All that stood apart from the room was a crisp deck of cards and an unused collection of poker chips. I have never been good at poker nor was I ever interested in playing but in my dreams I could play.I could play well. The man who sat across from me could have been my godfather but from looks alone I was never sure. In my eyes his face was blurred but somehow I always knew it was he --- years of visual restriction forbid me from painting a clear picture of his features but his voice was enough. From the moment I closed my eyes for sleep, I would come to this room and play poker with my godfather and for two weeks we would talk; talk about my youth, his life, my experiences, his experiences, and most importantly, we would talk about each other. He would always reach for the cards first and as he slowly shuffled the cards his voice would rumble around the room. He always asked the same question to begin with; “How’s my Little Princess”; even in my dreams my mind clung to the old nickname he had given me when I was first born and I never found it in my heart to find a problem with it. As the game progressed, we would delve deeper into the time we missed, I found out about his pain dealing with not living with his family and in return he learnt about my unhappiness in the world I lived.


I regret a lot in my life, but the regret that burns the most painful hole is the distance from my godfather as a child and adolescent, the little time I had with him was wasted in petty fright of his loud demeanor and irrational discomfort that if I had the chance I would take away completely. Every now and then we would pause the game and he would walk to the far corner of the room and pull out his miserable cigarettes. As he smoked we wouldn’t talk, for some reason it seemed this was the time we both came back to reality. I would remember this was a dream. My godfather was dead, he would never inhale the fatal smoke or sip from the sharp liquor he was used to and most of all nothing, could ever bring back the light that radiated from his personality. He would win, always. I didn’t have a fighting chance but I didn’t mind; the dream would never have semt real had he lost.

The dream itself would continue for two weeks. For two weeks, I dreamt of the empty room, the crisp deck of cards and I dreamt of my godfather. On the last day though, the dream was different. There was no deck of cards nor was there a stack of chips ready to be gambled away. A single bottle of crystal clear Ouzo stood dominantly over two frosted shot glasses. I was alone at first this time. He wasn’t already waiting for me but I didn’t have to wait; as soon as I sat down his dark figure walked up to the seat across from me. His eyes, the only visible feature, shimmered brown as he gazed at the greek drink before him, his culture making him happy. There wasn’t a question or even a word uttered as he delicately picked up the bottle and poured two shots. I was used to him being able to drink like a 1800’s drunk and not be fazed but this was different, he drank slowly this time. “Lets make this last” was all he said to me as he lifted his glass in salute and threw it back. My last night with my godfather was spent nursing a bottle of Ouzo while sitting in silence with the man I wish I could have had more time with. It felt like two hours later when the last of the sparkling liquor had been drunk and the bottle now stood empty and useless to the side. I simply watched as my godfather gave me a gently smile and stood up. I can remember the look on his face as he looked down at my seated form. To this day I can’t remember whether or not it was a look of sadness, pity, guilt, love or a look of all these combined, but they caused the metaphorical crumbling of my heart. In the dream, as my godfather had when I was four, he swooped down and enveloped me in a hug; the smell of cigarettes, shampoo and ouzo assaulting my senses as I clung on. I felt a feathered kiss and three simple words echoing in my ear and then nothing. I woke up in my bed the next morning with tear trails on my face and pillow. And yet for the first time since his death, I felt the guilt of never having accepted him weaken.

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The events that occurred within the span of those two weeks have stuck with me unlike the usual flimsy film of dream memories and I have yet to experience something of a similar nature. My godfather was a loud and proud Greek who, to me, was fit as a fiddle even though he drank and smoked as if the hounds of hell themselves were after him. His death was slow and painful and undeserved by him. He suffered greatly before he found peace but to me he shall remain the enigma I met in my dreams.