A Catalog of Progress (II)

      This afternoon, for the first time, I smiled and laughed while talking about him. This afternoon, for the first time, it didn't hurt. (At least not right away).

      Progress.

      It's so strange -- when I dream about him there's always water. Last night we were on a boat. Not so strange; we both loved boats. And we were out on the ocean and the sky was gray and the water was choppy and the wind was strong.

      I was standing at the bow, my hair being whipped in my face, my bare feet wet, the way I like it. I was a little cold, the pale blue windbreaker (his, not mine) wasn't quite warm enough, but I was smiling.

      "Don't fall in," he teased. "I wouldn't look forward to going in after you."

      And we both knew, of course, that he would have gone in after me.

      I laughed and took his hand, squeezing it in mine. It's the part of the dream that takes up the entirety of my memory because it's the piece that's real. The feel of his hand in mine, in caring, affection and friendship. It's the only piece that exists in actual memory.

      "Don't worry. I never fall."

      And he laughed too.