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In my dream, my father lies belly up on the floor of a supermarket, perhaps on his way to the chocolate aisle. He appears heavier, larger than I have ever seen him. He lies capsized on the cold white-grey speckled linoleum under bright lights, out of place like a beached whale, bare skin under XXXL overalls and river sandals. He doesn't seem concerned with righting himself. I sense that he has lost his dignity, but I do not know what this means. I just hear the word "dignity," as if sent telepathically rather than aloud.

I want to help him, but I stand across the big store, so far that I don't think he will hear me if I call, and I don't know what to do. Dad! Dad, I think, reaching out with my concern, although aloud I never call him Dad. I just say, you, or nothing at all.

I wake and feel an urgent need to visit him. I order train tickets for the weekend, to travel the 300 miles to my hometown. I must see him, I think, before he dies.

I get a phone call, but the caller asks for my husband. She fears my pain, so she wants him to tell me. But I only throw up my hands at the news and say, "I have no father. That part of my life is over." My trip, this weekend, too late.

I cry for the next three days, silent tears at times, gasping and blubbering as my children have never seen at others. Their presence, my responsibility to care for them, weighs me down. I want to run, crying and screaming, down the street.

I escape to the riverside. My father, Lance, 50 years old, loved the river. "My church," he called it. I hear his warm resonant voice in my mind, comforting and strong. I reach into the cold water, but I can't hold it. It rushes through my fingers and away, leaving my hands numb and aching, aching and numb. I want to dive in and float at the bottom, fully numbed.

Duck, from Old English duce, dook-uh, means diver. Tail feathers point skyward, beaks aim into the dark murky below, searching for nourishment.

While I imagine myself at the bottom of the river, cold-numb and sheltered from feeling, I see my father as he waits for a mother duck and her ducklings to cross the street. He smiles and murmurs, "My little family." He sees them often and prides himself as a guardian of their safety. I feel the same way about the doe and fawns who live near me. A little plastic bag containing a giant-sized chocolate bar sits on the seat next to him, the prize of his trip, nearly forgotten as he watches the ducks.

An old woman driving up behind doesn't notice that my father's truck

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