Saturday, August 04, 2012
That night I dreamt of Grace. We picked blueberries, filled a rusty paintcan. She was quiet but she laughed for me. Some part of me knew she shouldn’t be there and I asked how long she could stay. She said it’s you who can’t stay. You’ve people need you. I said nobody needs me. I miss you, Gracie. She said I know. I’m here. I said no you’re not. She looked away. I said I’m sorry. She smiled a little. For what?
On the way back we came to a stone wall. I said I don’t remember this. She said you came the other way. Remember? I said what? She’d climbed over easily. She said it’s gonna rain. I looked back. The sky was a big Steven Sadler painting I’d seen in Smythe Gallery once. Greens and grays and darks massing and foreboding. A small figure looking back from one edge. There was no wall. I couldn’t find Grace. I bent close, called her name. She didn’t answer. I’d dropped the paintcan. The berries had spilled. I knelt, picked at brushstrokes. A thorn pricked my finger. Somewhere a phone was ringing. It was mine.