An old friend has died of pancreatic cancer. I am bit by bit out living everyone to whom I have ever been near. It is not hard to do when you come from Enoch County. Half of the people of my time there that were within walking distance of my old home were dead before the age of 35. We got a head start on the rest of the nation.
I have travelled this old road often in a dream. It is the same dream every time. I come to a fork in the road and travel down a rough broken asphalt stretch that follows a steep banked run. The run borders pastureland and soon at a bend where there is a large willow, I come upon the gravel driveway to the farmhouse.
She is sitting on the porch swing. I am expected. I step out of my old Dodge, and she comes down the steps to meet me. There is rain in the air. We hug. Her eyes are cornflower blue. Her hair the color of straw. Her mouth tastes like warm milk. Her face like mine is pockmarked with old acne scars, but hers sparkles with a dusting of a powder that has flecks of glitter in it. It is her only extravagance.
I say that I am sorry it has taken me so long to get there. She says she was anxious but now it does not matter. We walk hand in hand up the onto the porch. We rock lazily in the swing with our legs touching and contentment washes over us like a quilt in the October chill.
This time I have kept my appointment. This time neither of us will break the other’s heart. This time the unknown cancer will not already be silently eating her away.
This road now only exists in my dream. I know that it is out there in Enoch County. If only I take the right turn some trip -- if only I find the correct sequence of unmarked gravel roads – if only I choose the right date in October, I will find contentment. I will be able to rest in the stillness and sleep.
