The Music Of Broken Wings
It is the next road on the right. This you remember. How it is not so much a road as a stretch of white, broken shells, leading to something. Someone. Though there have certainly been other, real in fact, roads since.
All that is swept away now, into the land of old songs. You concentrate, watch the trees to either side, looking for a break in them. Memory, on its own agenda, is beside you. Inside you. Memory scurries along, looks for the turn. And it appears. Suddenly the trees part. It becomes visible, the small fractured shell passage that emerges from the foliage. The car turns, but in a way you are already ahead of it. Up the road, on the heels of memory. Memory leaps and zigzags, a wild rabbit.
The house appears. It even surprises you, how much it resembles the house that looms in your dream, far away in another state, a safe distance away. In the dream that persists it proceeds like this. You nearly glide the final yards, stop just short of the door. You step out of the car. Good to stand again after so many miles. Already the churning has begun in your stomach. In the dream it is the same. You stand on a step. You ring the bell.