I had a dream that we were standing together in a never-ending expanse of grass. You sighed and said, “Hannah,” which is shorthand for don’t do this fucked-up thing. And because I am me, I did the fucked-up thing anyway and flung myself headfirst off the top of the hill.
Then we were at a train station—or at least I was—looking for you, maybe. I think I was under arrest, or I was late for something, or I was the outsider entering the crowded bar. Regardless, I was walking in that head-duck, straight-line way people do when they’re being watched and are trying to skim avoidantly past it. The brisk awareness of being surveilled. The people waiting on the station’s benches lifted their gnarled, weary faces as I passed. At the shoulder of one of them was an angel standing sentry over their bowed head. She was sorely out of place in a surreal, dizzying way—the kind of thing you stare at without blinking until it passes or your peripheral vision runs out of road. In all the concrete and soot, she was a sunbeam, a pearl, a snowy Delaware morning without a single footprint, looking serenely into nothing. I was looking for you.
And I woke up still looking. Peered out the window and watched a rabbit sit in the wet grass until it felt my eyes, jolted, and ran into the trees. It reminded me of you.
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