> After I told her that I was working on this column, she decided to try to dream about my father, who died last year. For five nights in a row, she says, she l

> After I told her that I was working on this column, she decided to try to dream about my father, who died last year. For five nights in a row, she says, she looked at pictures of him before bed, whispered his name when she closed her eyes, and snuggled up to “one of his ratty, old T-shirts.” Then she called me, annoyed. “It’s all bunk,” she announced. “Not a damn thing happened.” Surprised to read this little gut punch of a short story right in the middle of a fluff column.