Last year my dad dreamed he saw his dead father in the driveway, leaning against the hood of the red Jaguar they sold in 1966. Dad thought Grandpa had come for him, but he turned to see my grandmother bounding down the porch steps, purseless, with her skirt in her hands. She hadn’t run in years. My grandfather held out his hand, and my father watched as they climbed into the car, waving at him like a couple of kids after a wedding. Two days later, in the waking world, my grandmother was taken to the hospital, and the whole time she was dying she was looking over our shoulders at something in the corner of the room. It occurred to me that my father, like his father and mother before him, used to say, Someday when I’m older…, but then got old, and that everyone who’s aged out of our lives might still be getting older somewhere else, blowing candles and breaking piñatas and making the crazy plans of people with all the time in the world.