Irina Rozovsky

 

I dreamt I had not died at all—not like they said I did, not like I knew I had—but that instead, while they were gathered with wet faces, I went to Spain.  And there it was still summer and I was five years younger and still had that flowered dress for dancing, wherever it may be now.  And my friend was there with me.  Who was that friend? A little strange with that twitch, but he was there with me and we must have had a good time.  I’d never been to Spain before, I’d hardly been to France, but I knew eventually I’d get to go.  Eventually.  And yes, it must have been wonderful, probably better than ever before—those evenings, the music, the wine, the sea and sun—rejuvenating because when I got back they could hardly believe their eyes, the color left their faces and me there with a Mediterranean tan.  “We thought you…” they whispered—“You thought wrong” I laughed “now let me lie down a bit, it was such a long trip and I’m terribly tired.”