The other day I woke to a wonderful dream--not at all the kind that Hamlet dreads--and the first in my consciousness that involved Josh since his funeral. I've dreamt of Dad several times a year since 1989, and these have been angelic visits. So now with Josh.
Hypnogogia
The room was sprung from cedar, long and off
the starboard slope of what we’d make our home:
Mantrap Lake, erstwhile host of younger Volds
whose journeys had advanced but not outgrown.
‘When was it, Joe, you spoke the
sermon here?’
Dad pursed a smile at Uncle Dave
and guessed:
‘Seventy-four’—when things were
rearranged
and walleyes in our nets would be
most blessed.
Joshua, from the shadows of the room, joined
the thought as one who’d pastored Sugar Lake:
‘Scrabble?’ came the query, and Jon remarked
that we four haven’t played, for heaven’s sake!
I thought of Eunice, Hemchand,
Anne and all
who made their words to match the
memory:
it’s true, the games of two
outscore the rest,
yet quartets square the streams
of reverie…
And looking last at Dad, who
kept his smile
for having had the chance to
glow again,
I woke up from this dream, a
show-and-tell
to share with fellow scrabblers
now and then.
(would love a more telling photo, btw! Dan)
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