February 14, 2010

Osama bin Laden sent this pie

She dreamed he was in the kitchen. Here. After all these years. He talked to the others in the room while she carefully averted her eyes, but she was dying to stare open-faced. He wanted to take a walk, and she casually offered him her favorite green umbrella. He suggested she come along. Her heart sang, but she reacted coolly. No reason to give it all away, after all.

She led him through her childhood backyard, pointing out where trees used to be, where daffodils bloomed every year, where second base had been when playing youthful games of kickball. They walked past her grandpa's, and she had the luxury of knowing he was there--still alive, inside. They walked through the neighborhood, first hand-in-hand, then with their arms around one another.

She tried not to think too hard. She knew she was dreaming. She knew to take it for the few moments of happiness it could bring. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and it's sandpapery flush was so familiar.

She awoke alone, heart thumping, to grieve the loss of the dream.

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