“Poor dear,” she said, and I felt the cup of her hand
caress my cheek. I was certain I was asleep.
Yet the memory of the moment, the sound of her voice
above me are recreated exactly, each time the moment
The old sofa’s corduroy upholstery, a deep olive green, was worn to
velvet softness against my body,stiff and sore. Pressed into the well-
used cushions, my legs stretched out far enough to rub my toes against
these threadbare, overstuffed armrest.
The voice belonged to my landlady, owner of the apartment
built above the garage of the handsome Greek revival
mansion she and her husband restored. I knew nothing of
rentals, or owners, leases or contracts. I was young
and newlywed. This place was ours for now.
I was newly pregnant as well, but in the proper order;
sleepiness stole away each inactive waking moment.
This symptom above all others ruled my days. I must not
sit down, nor rest my swelling ankles, a mistake that often
stole my daylght.
The apartment cast a net of charm on all who came in.
It was alive with love and spirit-blessed all those who lived
there. Whatever they brought with them, fit by design, adding
sheen to shabby, and class to bargain basement finds, perfect
I did not know to whom she spoke, but I felt another
presence there. Foolish, deeply-held desires bubbled up from the river
bottom of life-long dreams. Such an embarrassment of childish wishes
would not be submerged in twilight shallows.
He was a kind and gentle man, father-like, funny, and dear.
My fully wakened spirit rose to meet him, this treasure
of my heart. Self woven dreams take no account of the
impossible. Beckoning me to where he stood, my arms
embraced his shoulders, as he did mine.
For as long as need held me there, my left cheek rested
upon the lapel of his shiny, shark-skin suit. Old style,
but oddly new, the scent of the fabric mixed with his
cologne still lingers in the air, the coolness of the
cloth remains upon my cheek.
It was dark when I awoke, yet the air was light.
No note nor trace of visitors marked the room. Except
for the dwindling embers in the fireplace, no sign
that time had passed was evident. As I rose to stand,
I smiled, touched the coolness on my cheek;
sensed a sweetness in the air.
There is magic, and dreams are realized.
There is no one to tell me what is real, or unealized.
To feel is to know, and knowing is understanding.
I have the gift of understanding bestowed upon me.
It came to me long ago, in a perfectly sized, divinely
designed apartment. I did not leave it behind.
In my dreams I live there still.
This is a true story. Intimate details are not included. For you, my Gentle Readers, this is enough. . .