Circa 2011

I was in a house, near the front door. It was daylight outside. In the house with me was my mother. I was trying to stop three men from taking her somewhere. The men were all former drinking buddies of hers, all of them dead of alcoholism. An asshole named Gary, Carl Whiteside and Randy, my uncle.

I was telling them that they couldn't take her with them. I wouldn't permit it. It just flat out wasn't happening and to fuck off. 

Gary was yelling at me, "It's my truck! I'm driving!" The other two were silent.

I simply said, "I don't give a fuck whose truck it is, you're not taking her anywhere."

And they didn't.

Circa 2001

I'm standing next to my car in the parking lot of an apartment complex I never actually lived in. It's a bright, warm, sunny day. Next to the parking lot is a busy road with heavy traffic going in both directions.

On the other side of the road is a figure, waving at me with his hand high in the air. I squint my eyes and see it's my friend, Roger. He looks great, which surprises me. Strong and hale, with a headful of hair and a beautiful, open smile on his glowing face. I'm happy because the last time I had actually seen him he was very sick with cancer. Frail. Dying. 

I can see he is restored and is joyfully greeting me. I wave back, so grateful to know that he's better now.