I dreamed of Michael last night.
Like 99.4% of my dreams, I don’t remember the details. Just that we are always doing normal stuff, kids killing time. And when I wake up, I feel uplifted, charged for a nebulous reason. Like we’d just spoken on the phone, or I just left his place.
He always charged me a little. Perhaps because we geeked over the same things — The Simpsons and Star Wars. And we both knew way too much about documentaries and sports.
But I don’t remember those times. Like when we were playing tennis and he dove on a cement court and was a wounded ring bearer. Or the time we met a derelict woman who spewed accusations that we, er, knew each other biblically. Or his medicated voicemails. Or the day he told me he wanted to be a donor. They would all become fond dinnertime stories. But not the taproot of these dreams. 
Nor do I think I replay the dark chapter, when Michael set sail for Mortal Waters. Not the time he told us of the brain tumor. Or when he came to see mom and downplayed falling in the living room. Or kissing him on the forehead goodbye in the wheelchair. I don’t see those visions revisited, either.
Instead, we are always doing day-to-day things. Working side-by-side in a theater; cracking up at crappy fast food joints; frantically searching for our tickets before we’d walk into a premiere (Michael once toyed with legally naming himself Plus One).
No wonder I feel warmed by the dreams. How can you not when the everyday feels extraordinary?
