Old people often have mortality dreams. Mine are usually preparation dreams, or, more clearly, non-preparation drams, in that I am not ready to die. I have to take a test in a course I did not even know I was enrolled, or I have to go on stage and I haven’t learned my lines. It’s never a musical dream, like I have to sing a solo when I’m not prepared, because I’m always ready to sing a solo, as long as it’s “Bill Grogan’s Goat.” But, clearly, the message is: You are not prepared to die.
Last night, though, I had a different sort of mortality dream. I was walking in my brown jersey gloves, which I always stick into my pocket on nippy mornings, just in case. But in my dream, they were not enough. My hands were cold. “I should have worn my leather gloves,” I thought.
Now, it’s possible to think of this as another non-prepared dream, but I think this means I am going to heaven, for surely there would be no need of warmer gloves in hell.