By John Souza

On the morning of May 18, 1976, I was in a deep sleep, dreaming that my father was on his hands and knees at the doorstep of my second-level apartment. He was naked, beating on the front door, fiercely knocking, pounding. I could see him clearly as though the solid wood door to my apartment was transparent. Begging me to let him in, he cried out, “Johnny! Johnny! Please let me in!”

I turned the doorknob counterclockwise and then clockwise—back and forth—repeatedly from the inside of my apartment. I pulled forcefully on it over and over, trying, somehow, to pry it open. But nothing worked; the knob just slipped through my hands. I couldn’t open the door. It was absolutely impossible to budge. The sound of my father’s pounding got louder and louder.

As I woke up from the dream, I was sweating. The additional sound of a ringing telephone filled the air. I looked at the clock (it was exactly 6am) and picked up the telephone receiver. My younger brother, Armand was on the other end of the line. And, in a quivering voice, he told me “Dad died last night…you better come over here.”