Last night, I dreamt you. I dreamt you were an old man. You were the kind of old man I’d never imagined, though. Your hair had gone white and your barrel-shaped body thin, deflated. You came up to me in a Kmart, a place I never shop, and asked if I recognized you. I didn’t. The only thing that gave me a hint it was you was the stark difference of your brown skin against a straw like white beard. “I’m sick,” you said. “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Be with me. Be there. For me," you said. How could you ask that of me? Laughter bubble up at the base of my throat. How could you? Even in a dream, why would you ask that? My breath heaved until I was bigger. Full of anger. I looked up as if looking for God in the sky, but I only found myself. I created this dream. “You stopped being there for me 30 years ago,” I yelled. The words oozed from my mouth and he
Sometimes I make sense. Sometimes I make you think. Sometimes I just need to write.