I’m asleep when I realize I’m having a dream within a dream.
Bruce is here and he’s talking to me.
My mother died over a year ago and I have had little contact with her since.
Bruce died five years ago, when he was fifty, after a ghastly run with colon cancer.
It was a long run. He had been a handsome, strong, vital man. A brilliant man. We were friends.
Toward the end of his life he lay like a waxen, hairless skeleton on his couch. I sat beside him in a chair and rubbed and soothed his bald head. He told me if he could change things he would never have had chemo.
When Bruce was in hospice and hours away from dying Regina called and asked me to go into his head and tell them what he wanted. He was restless, she said. He desperately wanted something and he couldn’t talk.