Standing in the light, they look like salvation itself. Her son’s hair, fine as strands of silk, his eyes as clear as water. Her husband’s face is perfect as the flood of light. They are happy, at play, laughing, talking. The dream is always the same. Always, she is alone, apart, an exiled observer to their movements.
Always, she wakes when she hears them calling her name.
She lies in the darkness and steadies her breathing, trying to soothe herself. She can smell their clean sweat filling the air, sweet as summer rain. She runs her hand across the cool sheets—then waits for the beating of her heart to slow. She thinks of Mister. Always, he was more yours than mine, Sam. She thinks of their last visit, how they both left angry. She can still taste that anger in the back of her tongue, as if the words she had spoken were as solid as a piece of bitter fruit.
She sits up slowly and places her feet on the cool wood floors. She walks toward the French doors and opens them. She breathes in the desert air.
Mister and me, Sam, we’ve lost our way. Sam. So many years he’d been dead. And still she woke uttering his name. A part of her expected him to answer.