The Pope visits me in a dream. He is riding a motorcycle. I know immediately that he is the Pope, even though he is not the current Pope. He is somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty-five years old with a five-o’clock shadow. He is wearing a leather jacket. He is straddling his black bike and taking his futuristic black helmet off and running a hand through his wavy black hair. He smiles at me and nods, a knowing nod that means he understands me.
Then he drives away, riding his Harley with no hands.
