That night I dreamed of my father. I often dreamed of him in those days. I suppose it had something to do with my aging or perhaps my years of melancholy. In my dream he held me like I imagined he would have held me had he lived to enjoy my childhood. He held me close and warm and comforted. He smelled of tobacco and leather and forest. And as I lay my head along his broad shoulder, he stroked my hair with his roughened hand and whispered to me in French-tainted Persian. And though my dream did not possess the clarity of language, I knew that he understood my sorrow. And that he was proud of me. And that he wanted me to be content.