Antiquity

"Our own personal heaven," Celeste said, awakening me from from sleep. It is a daughter and grandson day, twice a month. I described the dream to her, a house with beautiful old glass, rare objects, matte blue, hand painted. Couldn't call them tchotchkes, too nice.

Carole, you and I were together in a mansion sort of house, a bit dilapidated, the front roof a porch titling downwards but not ready to collapse, inside like an unadorned mansion, high ceilings, Romanesque columns, mostly empty, huge lovely space. Underneath the tilting roof were hand carved boxes, perhaps Persian or Chinese, old, grayish: antiquity. They slid from under the roof, you and I laughed, the roof didn't tumble down.

But in this world, my current reality, my world actually did cave the day you died.