Casey Gilfillan

We left that place together, hand in tow of hand, legs bound to the course. I ran ahead at some point, unsure of when our fingers had unlinked. You were gone and there was only me, looking and spinning in a vicious search. The brush was indiscernible and I did not know from where I had come. I heard you like a whisper, shouting from somewhere distant, shouting something unintelligible. Something else found me first. I yearned to be in the brush with you.

I wake to a bed without you. You are in the kitchen, scooping strawberry ice cream into your mouth by the spoonful. I am relieved, I tell you about the dream. You laugh, you laugh quite a bit. And then you drop the ice cream, the spoon clattering across the room. I look to the noise and back to you, except you are gone; the back door is open. I make my way towards the opening, the darkness bleeding into the kitchen as the door sways; the wind lulls it forth.

But as I step into the stream of nothing, I am no longer in my kitchen. Beige vinyl beneath my feet, a ghastly light projecting my vision. There are wooden seats – benches, some with small cushions – lined row after row after row. There must be at least 20 sets, each row stretched as one communal precipice. The seats are empty, full of dust and cluttered with an absence of something. I keep walking, unsure of when I started moving my feet again, until I am at the very first bench. You are there; you are kneeling.

I look forward, the light no longer casting a veil before my eyes. It is dimmed, subtle like a starving flame. I look forward, you are at the altar; you are holding the book and it is on fire.