I dreamed about you early this morning, and kissed your forehead and cheek as you cooked mushy pieces of ham in a frying pan for two little boys. Dressed in jammies, they gobbled it down. We were sitting at a kitchen counter, yellow, the color of of mine but the lightening of your former home. I had the sense one was toddler Miguel, my grandson and whom you never met but perhaps know anyway, he now nine years old. The other maybe my grandson William, nearly three. Or perhaps your two boys all those years ago when they themselves were younger. At any rate, you and I clearly together, my lips on your forehead and cheek like baby kisses.
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