I awaken suddenly. It is somewhere between five and six in the morning; that wistful hour when the dark is fully committed; the dawning of a new day impossible. I miss you most, now. I dreamt we were at an event and friends came to see you. They were charmed.
I feel your crooked back and I know the texture of that blue and black checked flannel shirt because you wear it so often, no matter the season. I run my hand carefully over bruised arm skin and it feels like fine, dry cloth. While tightening my grip around your elbow, you press your left hand into my left hand as hard as you can manage and we step up one stair. You tell me, “You need a railing”. I answer, “We are doing that soon”.
Your spine, the rough flannel, the bones lying reluctantly under wobbly skin; I feel them one solitary breath from touch. I am wide awake. My fingers feel these at this time of night when noise is stripped clean. Only one thin veil separates me from you and I am in an in-between place.
September winds along with spurts of rain; amber orange and early evening lamps; the days move reticently and the fields are brilliant and harvested in earnest. More deer edge the road. Your favorite season. My favorite season. My husband asks why I am crying. The night seems vaporous. And then I sit up and notice that it is gray and there is tender light at the window’s top.
The neighbors have a new fence. Our corner trees look taller. We talk about planting more. The sun rolls over our heads and there is strong coffee and sugared French toast; good conversation. What was not completed in night vapors, will not be finished now. I tuck one of your folded, white cotton handkerchiefs into a bag and we head out.
690 Saint Paul 