I woke up this morning to Dr. Rybak’s voice and the cat’s meow. Dr Rybak—dream. Cat—reality. (Wallace Stevens would understand.) I was lying among supreme linens in Allie’s childhood bedroom, and I was lying on my back, down the direct center of the bed, my head comfortably lodged between the two, side-by-side head pillows. Figaro wanted food, five am.
Chad accompanied my walk with Captain the greyhound yesterday afternoon, and later we went to dinner at Applebee’s, and as we drove back across the west-to-east De Pere bridge, we saw a magnified moon, low on the city’s horizon, pale yellow on lonesome blue.
I can’t write a story, because there is no beginning, middle, nor end. There are only moments, there for the slowing. I was happy to learn last evening that Chad’s uncle is a slow man; a slow, successful man. In the morning he gets ready slowly, as though getting ready was life itself.