IT WAS THREE IN THE MORNING when a rusty old file cabinet in my brain squeaked open. It liberated a memory from 1995, and replayed it on an endless loop.
It was Lois, my late mother-in-law, calling me early in the morning from the nursing home, as she often did. “I dreamed about Ben!” (Ben was her handsome brother who died during open heart surgery at age 42.)
“You did?” I asked.
“Yes, and he told me to watch out for a black dog. That it would be on my doorstep soon. I told him I hadn’t seen a black dog.”
Inexplicably relieved, I said, “Well, that’s great, you haven’t seen a black dog, then?”
“No,” she said. “But I didn’t tell Ben about the white dog. He was on my bed this morning.”