A week or so ago I had a dream with Whitney in it. I was somehow visiting a house where she and her family were gathered. It was one of those rare dreams that leave you feeling warm and happy once you wake up. I've had maybe half a dozen over the past twenty years. It seemed so real. They're better than flying dreams.

I appreciate that it wasn't real and that whatever Whitney meant to me came and went in real life twenty-five years ago, never to be revisited, but at the same time when I have a dream with Whitney in it I wake up and life seems brand new and shining, it's glorious to be alive, even though she's not in my life, even though my life has gone by without her as a partner. I'm not adequately expressing what I felt that morning.

If Heaven was like one of those dreams and I could get to Heaven by being good, then I'd be good, to paraphrase Stewart Brand. Dreaming of Whitney is as close as I'll ever come to being with Whitney. Visiting her and her imaginary family in their imaginary house was glorious. Even dreaming of being with her was enough to make me feel happy through and through.

Someday I'll have to take a look at my ancient feelings. No one I've ever met has held half a candle to Whitney. I keep chasing pale imitations of her. Was I fortunate to have met her? Wouldn't it have been easier to have remained unaware that anyone as incandescent could exist? I don't want to think about it. I can't think about it. Just move along. Make the best of it.