The other night, just in that space where one is both awake and asleep, aware but drifting away, I suddenly found myself walking through tall grass on the shore of a lake, growing from the soil below, sprouting through the face of the water, swaying in the gentle breeze, and on the other side of that outstretched arm of grass, I saw my mother and my son, sitting together on a bench-like log, a green bay behind them, speckled with lilypads. This wasn't an imagination. It was a memory, somehow stuck fast in the gears of time. I was re-living a moment perfectly preserved, just as I had lived it decades ago. There was nothing critical about the moment, nothing special, nothing ... well, memorable. The grass, the lake, my mother, my son. I was about to join them. My fishing bag was wet against my hip. Small bubbles rose from the roots of the grass. I was about to raise my arm and shout. I was about to join them on the bench-like log.