01-15-04

I had a dream the other night.

I am at a funeral in a classic New England church. It's set into a hollow of a hilly field. The building stands under autumn sugar-maple trees. Flame-coloured leaves obscure the narrow, black-shingled steeple. The sky is clear and mid-afternoon blue. Fallen leaves pile against the risers of the broad stairs.

I walk into the church. Mourners fill the varnished pews. A plain, oak casket with brass fittings lies in front of the altar. The lid is open. I see the body in the casket. It is a man, he wears a dark-grey suit. His face in indistinct. I know that it's unnaturally-natural, like any corpse.

A young man comes to me. It's my dead friend Dana. He wears a brown herringbone tweed suit with a vest and a yellow shirt. He tries to hand me something. I refuse to take it. I leave. Dana follows me out of the church and down the stairs. We stand in front of the red Miata that I drove to the funeral. The black top is down. He tries to hand the thing to me again. I look at his hand. The yellow shell of the corpse's ear lies in his palm.

I wake.

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