At 2:10 A.M., I recorded this dream: 

It is the noon hour, sunny, winds playing tag with bronze leaves along the curb of a side street. As I pull open the door of a trendy pub, savory aromas of the lamb Stockpot Special excite my anticipation for what is to come: a luncheon honoring my childhood friend, Harriet Switzer for her lifetime of service to the community. Slowly, I thread my way toward our circle table beneath Welsh posters and sit next to Harriet. Rather than enter full retirement, she has chosen to continue working with an interior designer.

The dream story pulsates with vibrancy and suggests an even fuller experience of life than heretofore. All my senses spring alive with hope. The pub’s camaraderie seeds gladness among patrons, already enjoying plates and bowls of of sumptuous fare, and instills warm tones within my psyche. A communion, of sorts, is underway, with aproned servers supporting the process.

I sit next to Harriet, my extraverted shadow, both enjoying robust health, despite the crisping of our eighty-plus years. With eagerness, we anticipate new endeavors, having learned that within each ending surfaces a new beginning: in this instance, collaboration with an interior designer who will add finishing touches to our psyches, still showing signs of the fierce struggle through which we have come.

It’s about preparing the wedding garment with its numerable fittings before a three-way mirror. I can’t wait.