I was the only passenger on the boat that pulled in to dock at a small rocky island in the midst of a bright blue sea. The gentle waves sparkled like diamonds, reflecting the late morning sunlight. A light breeze blew, and the air was pleasantly cool and crisp. No cloud marred the perfect autumn blue of the sky.

I disembarked and began to walk up the cobbled street that led from the dock to a small village perched on a hill high above the waves. Though the hill was steep, I climbed easily, buoyed by joyful anticipation.

When I arrived in the village, I knew exactly which of the narrow granite townhouses was my destination. I pushed open the wooden gate, crossed the small, well-tended front garden, the gravel of the path crunching underfoot, and climbed the three stone steps to the front door. At my knock, the door opened wide, and there stood my father.

He welcomed me with open arms, delighted that I had been able to come visit him. He had so wanted for me to see his wonderful new home.

The narrow entryway led into the parlor, inundated by sunlight pouring through the French windows. Handsome bookcases, filled with hundreds of books, lined the parlor walls. Sheets of paper blackened with my father's scrawling handwriting littered the writing desk that occupied the place of honor in the center of the room.

Tea was awaiting us on a cast-iron table in the magnificent back garden, which overlooked the sea far below. As my father and I chatted and laughed over tea, I breathed in the delicate perfume of the beautiful roses that adorned his garden.

When the tea was gone, it was time for me to go. After one last warm embrace at the front door, my father told me he knew I wouldn't be back, but that he was very glad that I had come.

I waved good-bye as I started back down the hill to the dock, sad but more at peace than I had been in many months. I awakened as the boat pulled away from the dock.

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My father died of cancer when I was in my mid 30's. Though the pain of his absence has become less acute, I still miss him deeply: his dry wit and brilliant intellect, his great interest in history, literature and theater, his passion for liberal causes, and his love for his family. His great dream was to become a writer, but his work and family obligations left him no time to do so. He had hoped there would be time after he retired.

He was no saint and made many mistakes, some of which inflicted great pain on his family. I always felt, however, that he loved and cherished me unconditionally, for which I will be eternally grateful, knowing how very lucky I am to have been so loved.

Six months after my father died, when the pain and shock of his death were starting to subside, I had this wonderful dream. My sense of peace and calm persisted upon awakening, and I have indeed never again dreamed of my father.