Wishing Dreams
I used to think when I dreamed about him
Paul's Bench
September 23, 2002
The phone rang once
Startling me awake
From a deep sleep
I jumped out of bed to answer it
Knocking over the Waterford
Crystal perfume bottle
On the way.
And to naught –
There was no one on the line.
I looked over at the clock
Only 5 a.m. but I was up for
This day, September 23, 2002,
The third anniversary of Paul’s death
A day that I dreaded for so long
And all I could think
Paul was calling to check in
Letting us know he was still around
Somewhere, And somehow
That one ring was a comfort rather
Than a wake up call.
The Wishing Dream
I startled and opened my eyes
Wide in disbelief
There was Paul
Standing by my bed
Calm, quiet, his lips turned up in
The little smile I remembered so well.
I reached up to touch him
His pale skin was cool, dry and very real,
Very much alive.
Mom, I’m back, I’ve come back
I really didn’t mean to leave forever
Two years ago.
And as he spoke the tears began
Pouring from my eyes
I was crying for all the days
I’d missed him, mourned him, looked for him
How I scoured the faces of all the
Young men who passed by.
The ones with short blonde hair,
Beautiful blue eyes
Fringed in black lashes
How I listened for his music
Every time I heard a jazz piano tune
In a bar, on the radio, on a CD
How I remembered him everywhere I went
Under the pier in Manhattan Beach
On the wide red-tile stoop outside Starbucks
In a dingy piano bar on Avenue A in New York’s lower East side
In the kitchen chomping on a handful of almonds
In his room where his jazz records still stand
In neat ordered rows on the shelf.
I got up and went to him
Giving him a welcoming hug
Never wanting to let him go again.
September 29, 2001
