That was all there was to the dream, but the pain upon waking was momentarily as fresh as the day we buried him. It was as if I had gotten him back for a moment, and then he was snatched away in the blink of an eye.
Later, I realized that although waking from the dream had been difficult, I had him in the forefront of my mind all day. Memories of his voice booming out across the house or the yard, laughing as he counted my ribs, and more adult memories of theological discussions and listening to gospel music. I think that's how grief is supposed to work. It never goes away, and is always lurking just below the surface but it makes us remember. It gives us a little push every once in a while to recall all the things we loved about the person we lost. It mellows as time goes on, but I think it's a good thing that we never quite lose it.