Postmodern Survival

I sit at a table with my mother, my wife, my father and his friend.  For some reason my father and his friend are wearing oddly-colored windbreakers.  They are getting ready to go somewhere.  Since my father should be dead and this is not the first time he forgot, I figure I better tell him.  At a break in conversation I lean in and say, “You know you died, right?”  He looks confused.  “You know what happened on (date), right?  I mean, you are not alive.  You probably shouldn’t be here.”  I realize instantly that I’m being rude, and turn to my wife and mother for a rescue.  They look confused, like they don’t have any clue what’s going on.  And then it hits me.  “You don’t even see him, do you?”  They give me a look like families give Alzheimer patients who can’t remember their names any more.  Some combination of realization, deep sorrow, and pity.  But mostly pity.  Then everything is fading.  I know it’s a dream.  I am awake.  I still feel bad for being rude.