I met my father in a dream. I spotted him on the street and walked up to him. It was early evening and the street was busy. We could have been in Belgrade. When I first saw him, he was looking at me already. He was in his fifties, maybe a bit younger than I am now, and about the age he was when I started going to the university. His carefully trimmed mustache was just beginning to turn gray. I started hugging and kissing him: “How are you?” “Fine,” he answered calmly. It was as though we had been together earlier that day. His face was smooth. He had a dark-gray hat of the kind he used to wear back then and a beige raincoat of modern design. It felt smooth and pliant to the touch. And then I started crying. “My Branko, my Branko,” I kept repeating as I hugged and kissed him. He looked at me calmly, without a word. I was crying when I woke up. The only surprise of the dream, I realized when I was fully awake, was that my father was not surprised by my tears.