I saw him in a lighthouse, writing in his journal by a flickering candle flame wading through dune grass-walking stick clocking with each step. I saw him crouch to pick up a bone of driftwood. In the shower, between the scenes of the birth, came to me images of a young, bearded man standing on an empty beach, wind whipping at his coattails, the ocean pounding in front of him. There were three of us in the room, and then there were four. I kept touching the hem of the handkerchief. I wanted to leave the room, but stayed because my legs weren’t working just then. I stood against the wall, touching a white handkerchief that I wanted to offer them. I dreamt that she had a husband-dark-haired, wearing a red shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows-who stood bedside, gripping her hand while she breathed. In this last dream, the one that got me into the shower at sunrise, she was in labor. This was years ago, in my early thirties, when I couldn’t find a way out of the doubt, fear, shame, and sadness that had arranged a constellation of grief around me. The idea to follow Henry David Thoreau’s walks came while I was standing in the shower at dawn one May morning, listening to the water drill my skull and lap my ears, wondering what I could do to stop the dreams of my past girlfriend.
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