It’s a late November evening in 1986, days after my 13th birthday, which I had spent recovering from the chicken pox. I had missed several days of school and Erica had come over to bring me homework and to cheer me up. A bit of a bad influence, Erica had recently taught me how to smoke cigarettes. She suggested we go share a Marlboro, which she provided. We told my parents we were going for a walk since I had been forced to avoid people and had been cooped up in the house for days on end. This gave us an excuse to go sneak a cigarette. 
At the bottom of my long, steep driveway, we couldn’t decide what direction we wanted to walk. The night was black, except for the streetlights and we didn’t want to venture too far away. So, we stood in the road, debating about what direction to head in. We could not be seen by anyone looking out of the windows of my house, so Erica lit the cigarette then and there and we decided to just stay put. What started out as two kids rebelliously sneaking a smoke turned into the first and most amazing supernatural experience of our lives. 
We didn’t know it at the moment, but my dead Uncle Mark, who at 27 years of age had died suddenly in a motorcycle accident almost four months before, was making his way down my street for one last visit to say goodbye. He was riding on a motorcycle (of course!) coming up over the hill several blocks from my home, headed our way. We had been milling about in the street and moved closer to my driveway when we saw the bike crest the hill and silently watched as the single headlight came towards us, seemingly in slow motion. We were feeling annoyed and anxious to get back to what we had been doing before we were interrupted by this person who was taking their sweet time. 
We silently waited. I noticed that the atmosphere began to feel different with each second that passed by. It was weird how long this was taking and there was an eerie, dreamy, calm quality surrounding us. The streetlights glowed unusually bright and the motorcycle’s headlight was almost blinding, as well. I felt mesmerized. I don’t recall any sound at all, which was odd when a motorcycle is approaching. 
Finally, the driver is almost close enough to make out. The first thing I noticed was that this guy was wearing silver aviator sunglasses that reflected the streetlights. Why would anyone be wearing sunglasses on such a dark night, on a road that would only get darker in the direction he was traveling? Then, with a shock, I could clearly see all of him. Four months earlier, heartbroken and bewildered, I had cried at his casket, painfully aware of how different he looked lying there than he had living and breathing. His beautiful curls had been cut off. Due to head injuries, his handsome face had been abnormally swollen. But on this night, he looked exactly as he had in life. I could distinctly see his jeans, a t-shirt with a pinstriped jean jacket over it - oddly, the exact jacket of his that his wife had given me that I uncharacteristically misplaced and never found before the flight back to Washington - black combat boots, his dark curls and his deep dimples in his cheeks from the smile that he gave us, turning his head our way as he slowly rolled by. He did not stop, he did not speak. He just continued on his way as we watched his taillight fade into the darkness. 
