In the dream, I am dead; my arms but rotting flesh. And then, a flash.
You are in my bed. Or,
I’m in yours.
“I’m with her now.” you whisper. “I know.” I softly say. I stroke your cheek with my fingertips.
And then, PANIC. “Is this why I’m dead,” I think?
has killed me. And then I remember:
I was dead before, too.
We are in the kitchen.
“I made bread, have some bread.” I say.
“I can’t,” your voice is slow, robotic and you’re dead-eyed, like a zombie, “I’m with her now.” But you tear into it, your bare palms anger, and allow it to nourish you as you destroy it. You turn and walk away.
And I feel it, I really feel it. Something like longing, something like despair, in that space between my stomach and my heart. And I know, I know it will be trapped in me, like breath, even as I rest.
I’m walking; the heat is overwhelming. I smell something wretched and realize it’s me. The rotting arms.
The rabbi is waiting at the cemetery.
“I don’t want to be in a box, Rabbi. I want to decompose organically in the woods or sea. Let my body fuel life for another.” The rabbi wags his finger. “They need a place to come visit you. You can’t deprive them of that.” He’s talking and talking and all the while he’s wagging, wagging, wagging like a pendulum on a grandfather clock that puts me into a hypnotic sleep.
I crawl into the box.