This morning, I took my Mother to a routine visit with her hematologist. She was fine. As I drove her home, she mentioned to me that, last night, she dreamed that she was driving an eighteen wheeler, delivering gasoline to stations in other cities. In the dream, my Father, her husband of sixty years, rode with her in the cab and offered helpful advice about how to drive a big rig. He died last February the twenty-eighth. She was puzzled, because, she said, she never saw his face.