Death Cleaning

I dreamt my father had just died. (In reality, he passed over a decade ago). I had to fly across the country to where he lived so that I could clean out two apartments in the same evening. Both must be vacated by the next morning.

The first apartment is my own. I had intended it as a place to stay when I was visiting town to take care of him. I walk into that apartment to find the space neglected to the point of ruin, decayed and worn like a hoarder’s home, with dirty hole-ridden walls and piles of trash in which I see the desiccated remains of dogs and rats. There is a greasy and grimy stovetop. On it sits a large abandoned pot full of old and rancid frying oil that had been swarmed by ants, some living and some dead and floating in the muck. My sister arrives to help for a minute, but she has to leave. I must clean this space myself. I am overcome with shame and regret as I clean up the apartment, and as the evening goes on the work of cleaning it makes me feel worse and worse – dirty and exhausted and ashamed.

When the apartment was cleaned, I had to go to my father’s apartment to empty his space before morning, when it must be vacated. In his apartment building, an older woman sits on a stool near the bank of elevators. I’m not sure if she works for the building, or was just a nosey resident. She is a white woman in her 80s, with short curly grey hair and a neatly pressed grey skirt suit that she wears over nude pantyhose and short blocky heels – the kind of outfit an upper middle class woman of a certain age might wear. She watches me as I enter and exit the building, emptying things out. She offers a running commentary. She criticizes me for being late, for the hideous neglect of my own space, for my lack of competence and care and for shirking my obligations. Eventually, fed up with her criticism, I tell her that she is a “mean old bitch” and “a mean old bat.” She hurls insults back at me but I realize that they do not bother me. She is not clever or smart and I don’t care what she thinks.

At some point, I am in the hallway in front of my father’s door, and I see an old friend, a man my age who looks like the actor Jason Siegel. He pours a small cup of water on my head, in a way that is purportedly playful but that I find demeaning. I tell him that I don’t like that and instead we should play the game we used to play. At that point he has a coffee mug full of water in his hand, and then the water is in my mouth, and he is drinking it out of my mouth as he kisses me.

In my father’s apartment, I am going through his things, and I am overwhelmed. I spent so long cleaning my own apartment that I don’t have the time I want to carefully go through his things – the family pictures on the walls, his art, various forms of memorabilia. I am dirty and tired and exhausted, it is a few hours before dawn, and the work has barely started.
Two movers arrive, strong men sent by the building to empty the apartment. I tell them that I am trying to go through his things, but I am far behind. I worry that they will gather everything up and throw it all out, but instead they tell me that I can continue to look through his apartment while they work on removing large items of furniture and less valuable things.

Then, a couple of friends arrive to provide support, helping me out and also asking questions about my father and his things. Then, my siblings arrive and help me. Then, it is morning and we have finished the work. We load my father’s things into a van that my mother is driving (in real life, they were long divorced before he died, and she no longer drives). She drives us to her apartment, and we will continue to sort through his things.

At this point, my father arrives. He appears as he did in his 50s, when I was a child. He is happy to be with us, and excited to go through his things. I am overcome with joy to see him. In my delight, I tell him again and again, some version of: “Welcome. I am so very glad you are here. I am so happy to see you.” The space is crowded with the items of his that we have selected to save. I worry that he might trip on a pile of these things and tell him to be careful.

This is how the dream ends: With my mother and siblings and father and myself, all happily gathered and ready to go through his things together.

~ Anonymous