"You tell me" you said. The planes are roaring outside and you remembered your dreams, flying aerodynamically positioned by your own hands taking off, aware of the world's ills, its lamentations. Me, the hour of the clock, the cat crooning, a pistol-lipped man in my dream threatening to unclothe at any time, dancing, ocean seabirds, a ride on a train. But what struck me most was your face, your eyes roaming with your thoughts, the melee, following the curves and the line of the room, the soft brown mole on your eyelid, the shape of your eyes, a deep soft waxy brown shaping your soul's intent, the tufts of your thick black hair shooting straight up, your delicate ear, the off line of your mouth, your lips speaking in soft dream tones of your night, of men bringing their lovers coffee in bed, scrambled eggs orange juice and toast. For the first time I see quiet in your eyes and remember your journey through the end of life, how you waked and must have felt all that pain you wished to escape, knowing deftly how to administer the blow, and those who brought you back to life. 
 

Copyright 2001,  Linda Fulsaas