Joe

During the months of late March and early April, round thereabouts, I had a reoccurring dream. Each night after this bout of dreaming I would awaken to find tears streaking down my cheeks.

The dream almost always – except once when it didn’t – it almost always began with me lying across my bed, not asleep, listening for something. A car would stop in front of my house, an El Dorado. It was a beat up maroon color. I don’t know how I know ‘cuz I never got up to have seen. I would hear footsteps on the front stairs. I would rise from the bed. I would go to the door and open it to find this Preacher. How I knew he was a Preacher I don’t know ‘cuz he was dead ringer for a tall redhead I used to know. Anyway, there he stood, his hat in his hands.

He would look at me and say, “Old Gold Joe there’s been an accident.” And I would say, “Bad how, how bad?” and he would answer, “The worst. _______ is dead.”

At this point I would turn from him and park my rear in my old green rocker. He would kneel at my feet and hold up his cold hands, as if hands meant something, and say, “Let’s pray.”

I always awoke in tears. I have said nothing about this dream.