Dream One

I walk through the front door of my house in Andover and into what should be the dining room, but used to to be the living room. My father is sitting on our old couch, facing the built-in china closet (long ago turned into a door to a basement stairwell) where the television used to sit.

An old television is sitting on a low coffee table in front of him. But it's facing the wrong way. He gestures to the spot on the couch next to me. I sit down.

As soon as I sit down, he offers me a mug of beer, and when I sip it, we're no longer at home-- we're at the old Boston Garden hockey rink, watching an exhibition game between the Boston Bruins and the Montreal Canadiens. It's halfway through the third period and Boston has an insurmountable lead-- 11 goals to 1. I think this is good.

You come up the aisle towards our seat. Someone is with you. At first I don't recognize the face, but in a moment I see it's the doctor who sent my friend to Spain. Except I know it's not him. You reach over and hold his hand.

"I'd like you to meet someone," you say. "This is..."