The dreams come more frequently now. Distorted images, intensely familiar but haunting, that shake me from my sleep, gasping for air and heart pounding. It’s such a relief, waking to first light, the sound of distant, exuberant mockingbirds and the smell of coffee brewing. I calm myself with several deep breaths and a few simple stretches before setting my bare feet on the cool tile. I search for my glasses on the nightstand and head into the kitchen. I blow away a swirl of pungent steam and sip. “Hot coffee for a cold day,” I laugh. It is summer in Florida. The temperature will reach into the mid nineties by late morning. The beverage is a comfort, a ritual between us. Shared time before we set about our separate tasks. “Was there a barn?” I ask my mother, now in her fifties. Her memory is my window to a past I can no longer access. The accident left me only fragmentary glimpses of my forgotten life, s...