I dreamed about my father last night. It was so strange and so real. His father, my grandfather, who I never met as he was dead by the time I was born, had come to visit him. My dad was like a child. He was so excited. They had planned a trip. Dad was going to take his dad on a trip, show him some things. I imagined he wanted to impress him, show him the things he had seen, done. His father was drunk and started puking in a different room. My car was there for some reason, out in the garage I guess, but he threw-up in it, on it, all around it. I was pissed. At everyone. Of course, I’m always pissed at my father. But then grandfather died. It was strange. Sudden. It shouldn’t have been. He was very old. But my dad was crushed and crying. Told me all the places he was going to take him. They were going to go camping, just he and him, spend some time together in the wilderness, maybe go fishing. Catch up and forgive each other. But now they’re dead and the dead don’t forgive. And neither do I.