A gray morning. As usual I’m awake before you. I’m in the kitchen working my way through a long and trashy book. I know how the story ends but I’ll read it anyway to make sure. Outside, a light rain falls. I’m watching an oak leaf drip water onto a snapdragon when you come shuffling into the kitchen, pink bunny slippers, eyes to the floor. You pause long enough to stretch and yawn before you open the refrigerator. You take a brown egg from its carton, then look back over your shoulder at me and manage your usual morning frown. Now you face me holding that egg and say, “Last night I dreamed I was peddling backwards on a stationary bicycle in the back of a U-Haul truck moving forward.” I look at you with my best imitation of puzzlement, and you say, “I’m exhausted.” And I say, “What your dream means is that we shouldn’t move.” You ask, “Were we considering moving?” “No,” I say, and then add, “You are my oak leaf and I am your snapdragon.” You cock your head and almost smile. Then you shrug and fry your egg. I return to my book.

two elephants
lumbering side by side
pause to enjoy a peanut

Bio: Dan Gilmore