Most often my dreams are crazy misfirings of the mind that get strung together into a narrative. But lately, I dream of her. I know she's passed away, but she's there. She's changed somehow. She's young, but she comes looking old, as though slipping on a familiar mask because she knows I'll recognize her better. That's not entirely it. I'd recognize her young. She comes old because she knows I miss her the way I last saw her.
It is a poor mask. She is entirely new, entirely other. She has seen the face of God. I can see it, feel it.
I used look forward to dreaming so that I could fly, breathe underwater, go down a waterfall in the jungle. Now I look forward to the night, wondering if I'll see her.
Camping- Vashon Style
2 weeks ago