I am eight years old. I am at a picnic. It is our family reunion. I am wearing a green sweatshirt.
The other children and I play hide and seek, and hopscotch, and tag. It is great fun.
Uncle Bart comes over to me. He has a big, fluffy moustache and is wearing overalls.
"Hey, sport," he asks me, "how about a piggyback ride?"
"Yeah!" I scream, and he lifts me up upon his shoulders. I take his baseball cap and wear it.
He runs forward as I hold on tight.
Suddenly everything becomes a blur; the ground, sky, and sunlight stretch out into infinity.
Moments later I am forty-five years old. I am in front of my workplace.
It is a multinational advertising firm. It is a skyscraper in New York City.
I am wearing my usual suit and tie. I am sitting on the sidewalk.
Underneath me is Uncle Bart's shattered skeleton.