I had a bad dream last week that I was back home for the funeral of a friend who died over twenty years ago now. In real life, we had had a funeral for him, of course. But in my dream, the family wanted to have another funeral — so I showed up.

Twenty-four years had passed, and in the dream I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was sad, but I knew it wasn’t because of loss. His death was something I learned to live with years ago. I don’t have many memories of my friend left, the sound of his voice and his laugh have gone. But in the dream, his family still wept in the way they always have, and I felt guilty for losing something so precious to the wear of time.