In his sleep the old man was whole and strong. His children would visit and he would play ball with his grandchildren--though they were a tad quicker than he. His daughters would bring salads and stories to share and his beautiful Tamara was still there in the kitchen watching him out the window and smiling when she caught his eye.

She'd wave like you do in a dream, slow and soft as a fan made of feathers. He'd straighten his spine, run faster, not let her see that behind the big grin he was tiring, not as fast, nor as tall, badly winded, but deeper in love with her than ever before.