It’s not like I haven’t thought a lot about the concept.  The wondering if our souls pass through another window, to some other side, entering that beaconing tunnel of white light.  A ship that sails touching a horizon entering into another ocean.

I know how brave I am.  I am not afraid of any ship.  My personal terror and fear is that it will depart before I can get things done.

The funeral is a testament to this man’s life.  Tears flow and this church is filled.  Stories flow pulling more tears and more laughter. A coach that took children home when their parents couldn’t provide rides.  A child who rode his bike miles to a library to fill his basket full of books.  A bronze star, a provider, a faithful husband, a lover of children.  A man who helped the community.
A man equipped with a wicked sense of sarcastic humor.
Wit and brain.
He talked little but spoke volumes when he did.

He is standing next to me calling me kiddo.  He tells me he loves me.  He teases the girls.  I think he is so handsome with all this grey in his hair.  I love his smile, his conservative ties.  I like his right tooth rimmed in gold.  I like his glasses and his pocked marked face.


Flowers fill a church.  It is beautiful fall day.  My heart is squeezed until the hurt turns to a simple exhaustion.

When I get home the garden calls.  The paving stones (which neighbors inquire about) need to be placed.  A dinner needs to be cooked. The children are hungry.

I can’t do any of it.

She comes and lays next to me on this couch and begins to tell me her stories.  She is warm and her skin is smooth.  She is loving me with words and her presence until I fall asleep.

In this dream I am a painter.  I am painting myself.  My body is naked and I am lying on the ground in a distant green forest.  I have been cut open from my head to groin.  Buzzards hover and are eating my entrails.  My hair covers the ground and catches the remaining sunlight. I have no eyes. My tongue is thick and swollen.

My mind tells me this picture will be hung in the Prado for generations to see.

It is morbidly beautiful.  Everything is tragic and wonderful.

There is a moment when I realize this can’t be real.  I cannot paint.  This is an impossibility.

The grass is covered with a thick dew.  Thick foggy steam covers lush green hills.  I can feel a chill.  He is standing next to me in soggy leather shoes.  The kind a teacher would wear.  He looks at me with hazel eyes.

He tells me he loves me.  He tells me I can paint.

I already painted it in my mind.