Brushstrokes

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.