I know the events I remember are real, even if some memories have faded and been embellished or even replaced with constructs formed from impressions, dreams, and emotions. These things happened. And if they had only happened in my mind they still add up to part of who I am, even though, “who am I?” is a question to which the answer only matters at those times when I’ve lost perspective for the moment; in other words, a bad day. But it was a very good day, and a warm summer evening when I arrived at a party at a suburban home, years ago now, decades.

I don’t believe I was actually invited. A good friend had told me about the party and suggested that I could drop by and that it would be alright. As I got to the front door I could hear music pulsating from inside and voices talking and laughing. I knocked a couple of times and after no answer I opened the door myself and walked in. To my left I could see the source of the music, a band lead by the same friend. He spotted me and nodded briefly and