I dreamt I was on a plane, and as always, it was full.

You were there, too.

As usual, you didn’t want to sit where I chose.

Not there or there or there, until at last, you plopped down, declaring it didn’t matter.

You were you, and then, you were someone else.

I was, as always, me.

You got up to get water, stood, and the plane went vertical.

You didn’t care.

I shut my eyes into the rush, certain we would die.

Where had you gone?

I opened my eyes and realized this was how the plane flew—down.

I looked into the windows below, and the history of the world marched before me:

dinosaurs and pyramids and men fighting wars, all against the hot pink glow of the sunset, shadowboxes set on fire.

I started to cry.

You came back with the water.

Look, I said. Look how beautiful.

You didn’t care.

You tugged my arm, tried to get me to turn my attention to you.

But I wouldn’t.

I wanted Creation with a capital “C.”

I wanted the world at my feet.

You pulled at me again, but I remained glued to the life, the burning before me.

You said you were leaving.

I didn’t care.

We were on a plane.

Where would you go?

I didn’t know.

I wanted what was in front of me.

This, all of this.

Who else was on the plane?

Did they see what I saw?

I had to tell them.

I had to remember all of it and write it down and tell them.

I had to stop trying to remember it

for you,

write it

for you,

tell it

to you—

the one person who was never going to listen.