A small town. The kind of beautiful American hamlet where all that’s missing is the Norman Rockwell signature. There was a party happening on Main Street. Lots of people.

I followed the sound of distant music and many voices and realized I was wearing pajamas.

I shuffled into town barefoot, with sleep crusted eyes. People were everywhere. I saw women positioning casseroles on card tables. Children playing tag. Old men in aprons were deep frying fish.

A band was playing music near the hardware store. People were dancing. And upon each front porch, attached to every home, were crowds of people, mingling, laughing, drinking lemonade and sugary tea.

Everyone was there. All my loved ones. All those who died. Friends whose lives ended young. Relatives, who were called away too early. They were all right here, holding paper plates, laughing with each other.

Also, I saw multitudes of unfamiliar children, dancing while the musicians played “Hokey Pokey.” I asked an old woman who all these children were. “Those are babies who died in the womb,” the woman said.

We were interrupted when a large pack of dogs came running through the town, careening up Main Street, greeting people. Among them, I saw my own former dogs.

Lady, the cocker spaniel who died in my arms. Joe, who was killed in a hit and run. And Ellie Mae, the bloodhound who died in a cold, sterile veterinary office.

In a nearby backyard, I watched old friends play baseball. The pitcher was my cousin, Cosby. My friend Lynn was playing shortstop.

Then a familiar woman stepped up to the plate, holding a bat. She was a teenager, long and beautiful, with raven hair. She looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place this young woman.

And that’s when it hit me. It was my grandmother.

Later, I was hungry. So I waited in line at one of the food tables, holding a paper plate. A guy in line recognized me. He shouted my name. Then he said, “Do you remember me?”

I stared, but couldn’t recognize his face.

“It’s me!” he finally said. “James!”

“James!” I said. James and I were sort of friends as kids. Not close. But definitely in the same friend circle. He died driving home on the interstate. I had almost forgotten him.

“I’ve been so excited for you to be here!” he said.

“You have?” I said. “But we weren’t really that close when you were alive.”

He just smiled. “Oh, you have a lot to learn.”

We embraced.

Mid-hug, I saw someone else familiar. She was standing behind a food table, serving people. She smiled at me. And I knew those two fiery eyes. It was my late mother-in-law, Mary.

She too was young. She came running around the table to hug me. She had never been a hugger in her earthly life. She had always been so kind and sweet, don’t get me wrong. But life’s pain had made her guarded.

“I’m a hugger now!” she said. “Can you believe it?” And we both laughed until we cried.

Next, I saw aunts, uncles, cousins and relations. Distant relatives I never knew I had, such as my twelfth great-grandfather. And they all seemed to know me already, although we’d never met. They were all waiting in line to meet me. There were hundreds. Maybe thousands.

“How do all these people know me?” I asked an old woman nearby.

“Everyone knows everyone here. We’re part of the same soul family. Like leaves on a branch. Some leaves are closer than others. But we are always growing together, on earth or in heaven, all on the same tree.”

Then the woman grabbed my arm and said, “There’s one more person in your soul family you need to meet.”

She led me to the edge of town, to a meandering river. There, on a shallow wooden bridge sat a young man, feet dangling over the edge, trousers rolled up to his knees. He was holding a long fishing rod.

He saw me and smiled.

He was young. And so very lean. A mess of red hair atop his head. He was wearing the same shirt he died in.

We embraced and I heard myself say his name. A word I haven’t said in a long time.

“Dad.”

I could smell his deodorant, a scent I had forgotten. And his beating heart was only inches from my own.

“What is this wonderful place?” I asked. “Am I dreaming?”

He smiled. “Earth is the dream. This is reality.”

Then I woke up.