recorded
you find yourself in the front room. there is a low fire. an old man is sitting in the chair your father used to sit in; he is not your father. he is speaking to someone you cannot see, in the kind of voice people use when their hands are clean and resting on their knees.
he says your father's name. he says it the way only the women in the family used to say it; he is not one of the women. you understand he has known your father for longer than your father lived. he asks if you remember the hat — the brown one, with the small tear by the band — and you do not remember it, and then you do. the fire snaps. the room is warmer than rooms become.
he says the name once more. it lands differently the second time, in a place behind the breastbone. you do not answer. you would like to ask him how he knows. you would like to ask him what he was about to say next. but in the dream you understand it is not for you to ask, only to witness; the dream borrowed your memory politely, and is, very gently, returning it.
recorded on waking · undated