You wake with a start. Your heart is racing. You reach across the bed to touch your wife. “Are you okay, honey?” A brief whimper escapes your lips. She’s not there, of course.

You realize it was a dream. She was in danger. You try to remember the details, but the details are lost in the darkness. You look at the digital clock on the bedside table—3:11 am. 

That was her birthday—March the 11th. Coincidence? You realize today’s date—November the 21st. She died eleven months ago today.

Was this a rehearsal for the main event—December 21st? Will the bedroom be filled with the ghosts of dead loved ones for the occasion? The four men—your father, two brothers and your son—dressed in black. Your son was a bit of a card—perhaps he will wear a black top hat so he can doff it to you. Your mother will wear that beautiful black dress she wore at the funeral of her first-born son, killed in a car crash at twenty-four.

And when the digital clock clicks to 3:11 and you wake with a start and reach out and touch the empty pillow, someone will be singing ‘Hallelujah’—Leonard Cohen perhaps.

It will be a beautiful event. Don’t miss it.