Last night I dreamed my father and I went for a walk. Soon after we left my house, he said, “Maria! My friend Jose the Basque lives here and his son and him want to play tennis with us at the park.” I asked him which park because there were at least eight in town. “The park with the tennis courts,” he said. “I thought you were smart!” I wasn’t feeling well & didn’t want to play, so I pointed out that he was wearing his dress shoes and I was in sandals. “So what?” He grabbed my arms and we danced an awkward jig to prove our shoes were good enough. “Look!” he said. A beautiful park had appeared with giant redwoods, dozens of tennis courts, and hundreds of people playing tennis. “Here we are,” I said, the sound of ball against racket against concrete against my eardrums multiplied by a thousand. “Ay caray!” he said, laughing. “THAT’S tennis?” True story.