Dreaming

"I don't like to dream," he said, "because the people in my dreams are all ones I've known and they've all died." His birth certificate insists he's nearly 80 but his face and energy accuse it of exaggerating. He can talk about his youthful experiences in England with vivid detail, but he missed the current date by ten days and can't consistently recall the names of family members. Something's amiss in the synapses, that's certain.

Maybe talking to him is why I dreamed of an old friend last night. We were close as brothers and promised to reconnect once we were both out West. It's been nearly ten years now, and I only see him in dreams. This time we met by happenstance in a restaurant and I asked him, "Where the hell have you been?!"

"It's a long story," he said, and we sat down to talk. For reasons I wasn't aware in the dream, I had to leave and he said he would call, but of course, he didn't.

The irony is, for the older gentleman, the past is more vivid than the present. Alzheimer's leaves him wondering who it was that just came for a visit and what was it he just read in the newspaper? Yet, he is pleasant and engaging, happy that someone cares and enjoys his company. Whether he remembers me after I'm gone or not, at least in those moments, we are alive and our conversation is not a dream.