May 26, 2012

Prince Street, Boston. 1988

One of the few reasons I used to like visiting the home in which I grew up in Springfield, NJ, was that I always had vivid dreams whenever I slept in my childhood bed. Still do. On one such visit, on the night before my friend Charlie’s funeral, I dreamt that I was at a big party with some Boston friends. It was in a huge old house with many rooms, and someone I knew came up to me and said Charlie (above, right) was inside and wanted to see me. I hesitated, but gradually made my way through the crowds and the music, and sure enough, there he was, motioning for me to come over to him. He smiled at me and I remember saying, “I don’t know exactly how to bring this up, but aren’t you dead?” He took my hand and said, “Yes, I’m dead. But I just wanted to let you know that I’m OK.” I woke up. And I went to the funeral (along with my friend John, above, left.) And I wept and wept for my lost friend.

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