Two days after his birthday, when he would have been ninety-nine years old, I dreamt of my father. I do not remember much about the dream, though. My No. 1 son was with me before my father joined us. My son was about six. We talked about all sorts of things. Both of us were most serious but we were also very close. I remember telling him that all he needed to do whenever he wanted me to do something for him was to talk with me about it, and that I would then do everything in my power to do whatever he wanted. When he joined us, my father did not say a word, though. He seemed to be about forty, when I was six, too. But he looked distant and stiff. His eyes were vacant and his face was expressionless. My heart went to him at once. I walked up to him and started caressing his face. Soon afterwards I woke up in tears.