Ten years gone, holding on, ten years gone

Ten years ago right now I was headed back home (or maybe already there) from dancing modern jive.  It had been a rainy night and I remember Heather and Aris, my companions, got to stay dry because I let them out at the venue (church basement) while I went to find a parking spot.  Little did I know that my dad's Aunt Berta, whom we all called Tante, had died that night.  Little did I know that a conversation I would have on the Queensboro Bridge with Aris, who was FOB from Greece, would haunt me the rest of my life.  And little did I know that my plans for the weekend would be altered.