I helped him toward the bathroom and found him paper and pen because he wanted to write a note to his sister. I asked him if he'd like to call my mother and he said, "No... she'd just worry."
It was a dream, sure, but it was the most horrible thing that had ever happened to me; and just now - thinking about it - I find a fear dripping from the corner of one eye as I think once again of how death intrudes, inevitably, into all our dreams, spiking the most piquant, yearning, incompleteness in our hearts as we are caught in the crossfire of love and death that is the Cain-mark of our condition.
Joy and fear, love and pride. They are an inescapable dialectic that is remarkable, primarily, for this: it is so, so beautiful.