Steven LaChance Blog

I had a dream last night that stayed with me long after I opened my eyes. It felt real in that quiet way some dreams do. In the dream I was walking with my dad at Christmastime. We were at Northwest Plaza in St. Louis, going to see Santa, and I was maybe four years old. Everything felt big back then, but nothing felt bigger than him walking beside me.

I looked down and saw my little hand inside his. My dad had large, strong hands. When he held yours, you felt safe without even thinking about it. He was larger than life to me. Gentle, but never small. Six foot three and steady in a way only dads can be when you are that age.

When we reached Santa, I remember being excited and nervous all at once. Santa asked what I wanted for Christmas, and I told him chicken soup and a truck. It sounds funny now, but I meant it. I loved those Libby soup flavor eggs that melted into the hot water. They were these bright little yellow balls that swirled around until they disappeared. I would watch them break apart like it was a tiny storm in a cup. It felt like the world giving you comfort in a cup and a show all at the same time. To a four-year-old, that was pure magic. I wish I still believed in the magic of simple things.

Everything was fine until I got off Santa’s lap and turned to find my dad. He had been right there. I saw him. But when I looked around he was just… gone. At first it did not even register. I just kept scanning the crowd, thinking I somehow missed him.

Then the confusion settled in. That heavy, sinking kind of confusion only a kid understands. The mall felt too bright all of a sudden. Too loud. People were moving everywhere and none of them were him. I tried to stay calm the way children do, standing still and hoping your parent magically appears because that is what always happens.

But he did not.

I called for him, barely above a whisper at first. Daddy. Nothing. My throat tightened and I could feel the panic rising fast. The kind that makes your stomach twist and your eyes sting because something is wrong and you know it even if you cannot put words to it.

I called again, louder this time. Daddy. Daddy. And the sound just disappeared into the crowd like it meant nothing. I was small. I was alone. And all at once it turned into real fear. Not the kind that builds slowly. The kind that hits you hard because you suddenly know you cannot find the one person who makes you feel safe.

I opened my mouth to scream his name one more time…

And then I woke up.

No warning. No easing out.

Just fear one second and the dark the next.

I was crying before I even knew I was awake.

It was nothing but a good dream turned bad.

It took a moment to understand where I was. But the emotion stayed, because dreams like that reach into the deeper places. Part memory. Part longing.

The holidays are different without my dad. They always will be. Christmas has a way of opening old rooms in the heart. A song. A scent. A quiet second when everything slows down. And suddenly you feel the absence of the people who should still be here.

Grief does not disappear. It shifts. It settles. It comes back in different forms. Sometimes it comes as a dream that feels like a visit. That is what last night felt like. A small gift in the middle of sleep. A walk with my father. A reminder of what it felt like to be four years old with a hand to hold. And then the grief stepped in. It overtook the memory, reminding me of the loss I still feel so sharply in my heart.

I miss him. I always will. But for a moment in that dream, I had him back again. Just a few steps through Northwest Plaza. A small hand inside a big one. And the feeling that he was still right there beside me.