Wednesday, Jan. 15, 2003
I dream this morning. I am sweeping the floorboards of a porch. The weather is overcast and chilly and I can see you on the other end in an open weave hammock. I feel sheepish, but smile to myself. I am glad to see your face, because it had been so very long since I have. I sweep, and you swing, lightly.
I come over and notice first that you have wrapped yourself in the red and white blanket from my childhood.
I am amazed. I can't remember the last time I even thought of that blanket.
You pull it a litle closer around you.
You are wearing your glasses, and hold a book open. I can't see what it is that you are reading. You pretend that I am not close, but then close the book.
You say to me: You have no idea how hard it is to walk across the room to you.
Then it ends, and those thirty six miles I have put behind me stand in front of me again.