Last night I dreamt my father had died. I arrived at the funeral service in an enormous church that was packed and rather boisterous, considering the circumstances. I wound my way up the center aisle around clusters of people talking, the sanctuary humming with energy and chatter. Being his son I figured I should sit up front. I pushed my way past the revelers till I reached the front row. I sat down in the last spot. I glanced over to my left, across the aisle, and there was my mother, sitting with her partner. She was beautiful, brimming with her own barely-contained energy, the way she looked before the disease. They smiled and waved at me and suddenly I realized that I should be sitting on their side of the aisle, as if we were at a wedding. Unfortunately, as my mother indicated with a shrug of her shoulders, there wasn’t any room.