Just before I awoke this morning at four, I dreamed I was with both of my parents and we were walking on our old family farm. The harvest was in, but here and there some of the vines and trees still offered ripe gems. By and by, my father faded away. And then my mother and I came to a place where there was a long, steep grade. And though the climb seemed well beyond the ability of her age, she willingly started up, and I supported her with my arm around her waist. Part of the way, we began to slip. And then she summoned her strength and pushed us both to the top. It was a place on the farm I had never seen. At least not that way. It was day, with an added twist: I am a child, writing this.