the following is my first Ron dream in over 5 years:
Ron Silliman grabs my ass at a funeral.
Yes, I'm at the funeral of my best friend's daughter. She was 16 months old and there was a small thin tube down her throat. And, o, how her mother cried clutching at my shirt each time I visited them on my way home from work.
"Let us go then, you and I," whispers Ron, huskily, and I am powerless, watching us go trembling, impatient, like a couple of greedy insatiable teenagers. Through the cemetery gates guarded by twin giant oak trees. And on into the long tall grass.
And then the tenderness of flesh. The sweetness. All the blood and the screaming. The holding off of time and decay. And then the glowing as we stroll on hand in hand.
Maybe we've died and are strolling towards heaven, I think. But in the distance I can see a crude gallows has been erected and I can see people getting out of smart cars.
Ron's grip on my hand tightens. Suddenly he's extremely strong. Like a young Schwarzenegger. And I'm panicked.
“Look,” I say, “I’m not really sure what I've done but couldn't I just write a couple of poems, or a short symphony, and we’ll just call it even.”
The sky's like the end of time. The sky's like a bright shining dime that reminds me of our sins. And I can almost hear Robbie Williams' rising angels. And everything's going to be ok. It's going to be ok.
Ron snaps out a quick “No!” puts his hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and tells me:
“I am really sorry, my little bird. I am really sorry.”