valiumthyme

It was like looking through gauze, details softened, but the essence was there: I knew it to be your house. I sensed an emptiness enveloping the place where I stood, and peered around the corner to see that the building sat in the middle of an open field, the grass like ocean water with the wind rolling over it. In front of the house just to the left of the door grew a live oak tree, its twisted, arthritic fingers extending in chaotic disarray across the entry. In time, I learned to graft the branch of a gingko tree to the oak, and it thrived. Satisfied, I entered the house, but you were not home. I found letters you had written to me, telling me of your life. You were happy. You related details of past loves, your happiness and your work. After reading, I left the house feeling distant and alone. Crossing over the threshold to the outside, the live oak cringed and fell to dust at the side of the house, leaving behind only the grafted branch.

This morning I awoke from the dream to face the day. Into consciousness I carried with me an immense feeling of sorrow, loss and disbelief. I imagined, half awake, that I had never felt such a fundamental anguish.