Twenty-two

Peggy,

    Cold, sick, tired. 

    Then I have two angels with me everyday, caring for me, ok, not fixing chicken soup or anything, just a nice comforting light. I look at her in the morning; I write in the evening, one evening to your ghost; the next to her. Yes, it is a dream, creating how 1969 could have ended: with us, somehow, within something, but just us, something between just us. The dream is of me keeping you safe and alive, healthy and strong, writing and loving (oh not just me, helping to keep your endless compassion). 

    I have to write to her, well...she is me. She knows I will not dissolve away, I will not stop being her. We are not so much two anymore. I will always be with her. Simple.

    I met her in late 1970, on a trip. Even in the dream, you would not have changed how I reacted to being in her presence. In the dream, she would not have stopped my cherishing you, or our attachment to each other.

     Dreams. They don't pay the rent.

    In the real world, you had gone, so my emptiness was cold and waiting for her sun.  

  

      

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