Dreams. Ephemeral. Winsome reminders.
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A chorus from "Gypsy" while exiting a priggish hotel lobby.
Sun-bleached sea shells and red fingered nails, sparingly sprinkled with sand dust.
Considerations of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Proust over plates of bacon and eggs, and assorted pastries from DelPret's.
Me, a mere spider in the corner, trying to catch what bits of edification might float my way.
The table was always set with fine china:
the room full of high education, higher intellect, laughter, and the aroma of strong coffee.
She would take me into the city- to Saks and The Russian Tea Room.
We'd catch an afternoon matinee-
"No, No, Nanette" or "Man of LaMancha".
On the train home we would discuss Austen, Dickens, Hardy, and Hawthorne.
It was on the train that I was introduced to The Wife of Bath and pitiful Desdemona.
I would write her letters which would promptly be returned corrected, in red ink: a crisp twenty and a word of encouragement always tucked inside.
She called me "hers", and I loved her dearly.
She's been dead ten years next month.
I still adventure with her in dreams from time to time.
When first I wake I am filled with the warmth of her.
As I come fully back into my world, the tears come.
I can not help but wonder if they come from missing her, or if it's gratitude for having had her in the first place?