Edith Piaf

Two days after they pulled Mur from the Iris Haven River, she visited me in a dream.

I was on the beach, naked, gazing down at the celadon water that rushed over my bare feet. Ten feet away, a dolphin lay sleeping on the shore.

“Edith! Edith!”

I spun around. There she was, dressed in Prada. In real life, she never wore designer labels.

“Ma chère! I thought you were dead.”

“We are both dead, Edith. You and I, we are dead.” She touched the back of her hand to my face. She smiled so sweetly, and I thought, This rest has done you a world of good.

She patted her head. “I lost my hat. I need my hat.”

“We’ll go up to my house and find you a new one,” I said, and as I turned to go, my legs twisted at the hip and then all the way down, like a licorice stick, snapping completely off. A wave swept in and carried them out to sea. There I was: a torso stuck in the sand. I began to weep.

“Don’t worry. You won’t need them.” She removed her hair as if it were a wig.

“But Mur, I don’t want to be dead.”

She threw up her hands as if to say, Hey, what can you do? and walked away. And I was left on the shore, unable to move, the sleeping dolphin my only companion.