LAST NIGHT I visited the house again. It looked as it did ten years ago, when I dreamed about it often. I’ve never seen the house in real life, at least not that I can remember. It is tall, three stories of paned windows, all brick with a shingle roof. The part I remember most clearly is the covered porch. No wider than the front steps, it has facing benches that I like to sit on. I guess I was never shy, not even at six; in the dream I always opened the door, walked inside, and played with the toys.
Last night the door was locked. That’s how I awoke, trying with all my strength to open it, desperate to...