Last week I began to dream of our last week.

I go to sleep longing and wake up longing and the world around me recedes. My life now weaves through our life then and God pulls the world away from me so I can watch from a distance and not break completely.  

He lets me dream that I see your head on the pillow next to me, or hear your steps in the hallway when I call your name from the kitchen, and as crazy as it sounds, this morning I made you a cup of coffee with four sugars and half a cup of cream and took it with me outside on the porch so we could sit in a peaceful silence while the dogs played and the horses finished their alfalfa.

In my imagination I see you walking across the pasture with our grandson, Branch, on your shoulders. The two of you will survey the crop of trees I want to build a treehouse in and talk of adventures. Along the way, Nash and Echo raise their noses from the soft grass and Branch waves and shouts with glee.

I begin to laugh aloud at the ridiculous way you take your coffee until the laughter turns to tears and the tears turn to prayer.

If Rex were here, he’d lay his head in my lap to calm the tears. But he’s not here because death took him too.

Last week.

Our last conversation was over the phone with me at work and you excited to tell me that Aaron had begun his first day at Film Camp and you’d found a hotel room close to the most extraordinary grocery store. You described the fresh produce in such animated detail that I can still picture the corn and peaches and romaine lettuce. I can still  hear the joy in your voice.

“I’m headed to Danville for a bike ride. I love you, Babe.”

“Be safe. Tell Aaron I’m proud of him. I love you too.”

Our last spoken words.

Fifteen years ago.

Or last week.