And then. . .

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?...