She took me to the Belmont café on a summer morning, and it was rows of desserts: bittersweet chocolate, licorice gelato, pistachio cookies with eggnog cream. Bells chimed and there were pretty girls in hats. There was music for harp, viola, and flute, like a stream in sunlight.

We sat on black wrought iron chairs at white marble tables wisped with blue, and felt the cool flatness of the marble against our palms.

I said hello and ordered café au lait in a bone china cup. They set it down with a satisfying clack and its warmth dropped into my core, and it was like a happy healthy youth in Paris with fashionable blondes and buttery flaky croissants.

She said, overall, I think we were happy here, and I said we had to be somewhere for these five years and yes, there were moments of happiness.

She stirred her strawberry lemonade and drank deep and looked out the window and said, like what?

Outside, a girl was walking her whippet and they both looked young and full of promise and I said like the dark purple lunch we had that time at Topolobampo. Like the quiet minutes at the aquarium with the tiny jellyfish circle-pulse-circling around their thirty-gallon universe. Like the time at Lindberg Park when you called me to you and told me to run and said come on come on in the cool autumn dusk and hugged me and said now there, finally, you looked like a Marine.

They brought us toasted sandwiches and thick soups that tasted round and full, with a sharp tinge of fresh parsley. Outside, people walked by.

One time, she said, you stood naked in the kitchen and I placed chilled pineapple on your tongue. One time, we spent hours at the pen show selecting the color of ink that best matched your intellect. There were many such times and here we are now, in a favorite place, saying, in our own fashion, goodbye.

I remember, I said. I remember the times, but were they really Chicago? Chicago’s supposed to be Wrigley and Italian beef and the blues.

Yes, she said, they were Chicago. They were our Chicago.

One night, after Mr. and Mrs. had turned out the light, and the little white house grew so silent and still that Hauser could hear with his big Devon ears every whispery sound, no matter how slight, a howl emerged from the deep winter wood making Humphrey and Fleta wake, shaking with fright.

But Hauser was brave and eager to save pretty Fleta from every treacherous plight, so he leapt to the window and watched the thick snow blow and stood guard with his head turning left, turning right.

“Don’t be so fast,” said Hauser aghast when Fleta suggested the danger had passed, “for terrors don’t pass on their own, hope we might. What I think is that we should find it and fight.”

He then turned to Humphrey, a young mini schnauzer who was new to the home and who idolized Hauser, but Humphrey stayed silent for as long as he could, for he wasn’t quite certain that fighting was good.

Yet Hauser persisted and Hauser insisted that he could not keep Fleta safe unassisted, so finally Humphrey said he understood and he would go hunt in the deep winter wood.

They walked without talking (after all, they were stalking) when Hauser started to slow. “Humphrey,” he said, “we’ve no further to go, for there on that tree-branch, just hanging below, I see the brown body of our dreaded foe!”

“Foe?” said the creature, “no, no Mr. Cat. My name is Rodrigo, the Rodrigues bat. I fly and I screech and I look like a rat, but please, my friend, do not hate me for that.”

“Hauser,” said Humphrey, “take what you said back. Rodrigo did not deserve that attack. He cries when he flies and no one sleeps stranger, but surely this creature would cause us no danger.”

“Kind Humphrey,” said Hauser, “tonight that seems true, but tomorrow who knows what Rodrigo will do? I’m going to eat him, though his wings are so leathery. (I’d really prefer it if he were more feathery.)”

But before hungry Hauser could unsheathe a claw, he got distracted by singing and saw a hopping, horned fellow that looked like a goat and draped down his back was a bright-colored coat.

“Now there,” whispered Hauser, “is the villain we heard. He’s even more dangerous than that furry bird. If you try to ram him you’re going to lose, for those horns on his head leave a terrible bruise!”

The goat stopped his hopping, looked down and then said “little tiger, I promise, I won’t bump your head. I know when I hop I look rather silly, but billy goats hop and I’m Billy Goat Billy.”

“Hauser,” said Humphrey, “I think Billy’s fun. Why is it that you must distrust everyone?”

“Gentle Humphrey,” said Hauser, “my distrust is wise. I’m not so quick to believe other’s lies. Look at his coat and you’ll see what I mean. What trustworthy creature wears red, blue and green? Why Humphrey, that Billy Goat Billy’s obscene!”

And then, the cat and the dog heard a cry. It came from a dragon weeping nearby. “Dear dragon,” said Humphrey, “I don’t mean to pry, but I see that you’re weeping and I’d like to know why.”

“I’m weeping because I haven’t got gold. An indigent dragon is worthless, I’m told.”

“Now there,” hissed Hauser, “is a creature most foul. I bet it was she who woke us with her howl.”

“I howled because my grief was so deep. I’m sorry, my friend, if I ruined your sleep.”

“Hauser,” said Humphrey, “this dragon is sad. Don’t tell me you think that she also is bad.”

“Humphrey, I know that right now she seems tame, but turn your back once and she’ll roast you with flame!”

“No Hauser,” said Humphrey, “I don’t believe that. You really are a paranoid cat. This is where our partnership ends. You treat them as enemies. I’ll treat them as friends.”

The two left the wood and headed for bed. They walked without talking (though they were not stalking) until finally Hauser quietly said, “our friendship is not what it once used to be.”

“Something about it has changed, I agree.”

“Fleta will never choose you over me.”

“Fleta will choose what is right, as did we.”

Radiohead has a new song available for free download. You can find it here.

A Radiohead song is a precious thing.

He thanked Dad and Edith for paying, and left them with their cups of decaf and their crème brûlée.

He walked quickly to Van Buren, hardly noticing the emptiness of the buildings. The station was ten minutes away, and the 11:20 was the final train.

The station housed the usual urban creatures of the darkness. The saxophone man’s ragged melodies ricocheted along the tunnel. The rumpled woman with too many bags was advised of his lack of change before she even asked. He looked at the Elgin clock. 11:17.

He stood by the platform door and studied the pattern in the floor tiles, almost Moorish in its intricacy. He felt immersed in the huge span of history and thought of the thousands of people who tread those tiles every day, each on their way to some place they think important. Somehow, of all the millions in the city, on this night he was the only one in that place. He wondered if that was where he should be. He wondered if any one of the millions was really where they should be. If any of them were, he wondered if they knew it.

The train ride filled him with hope. Suddenly, he felt he understood his story. It was there, laid out as plainly as the tracks that disappeared into the onrushing future. He didn’t know its specifics, but its purposefulness seemed assured. No one would bother to lay train tracks through a place devoid of meaning.

That idea comforted him as he descended to the street. Then, he saw the statue of the Blanik Knight, regal in the moonlight, and he thought of tragic Poland and remembered that trains had run through Auschwitz and his search for meaning halted. He walked.

The walk along the Midway was long and cold and beautiful. He was quiet. He listened to his breath, and it kept him company.

At Drexel, he turned and crossed under the trees and considered going to the roof because he was addicted to the stars. But, once he got into the warm, he decided he would not go into the cold again. Instead, he soaped his face and stared in the mirror with his dark, sunken eyes. His angular face, so angular it bordered on caricature. So, he thought, this is how the world sees me.

On the way to bed, he opened the blinds and cracked the window. He slid between the chilly sheets, pulled on a heavy blanket and shuddered as his muscles loosened. Outside, car sounds. City sounds. Rap. North Side, North Side. They can’t be bothered with the South Side, South Side. They all got problems on the West Side, West Side. I only care if they’re on My Side, My Side.

He closed his eyes and thought of his mother. Think of the beach she’d tell him when he snuck into her bed from nightmares. There’s a beach, and you and I are on it together. There are birds and fish and the gentle sounds of water. We’ll collect colorful shells, and we’ll sleep in the shade of the trees. The beach will never go away. I give it to you forever, with the promise that I will always want to be there with you, and will be.

I
Have you ever stood next to a man about to face judgment? You can hear his heart. You can smell the fear, which smells like rot with a honey drop of hope.

II
The juror hands the verdict to the badge. It floats to the black robe, inscrutable. The accused, no breath.

III
What does this mean?
It means you can go home.
It’s over? I can go home?
It’s over. You can go home now. Are you okay?
Yeah, I’m okay.

IV
Tired. Pick up the papers, file them later. Police reports, witness reports, trial notes, the client’s notes. The client’s notes, what are they? Pages filled front and back, and all one word:
Freedom.

V
Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

The chill mix shuffles quietly. For The Birds. Hahn Songs. Nick. He shifts in his seat and counts the cursor blinks. Defy the blank screen.

When nothing develops, he looks out the window and loves the evening sky. After a while, he reads through some old posts and is surprised. He doesn’t always understand himself. He wonders if others understand themselves.

The music plays and it’s good music. A perfect moment, except for the lack of tea – and words. It’s impossible to write when life is good.

He lets his mind fly out the window to Portland, New York, and to wherever the note taker takes herself. To others who struggle before the electric emptiness and who, more regularly than he, overcome it.

Today, I thought of Jerry all the while. Mother got him just after she left Dad – a sort of rebound I guess. She got him “used,” she would say, though he wasn’t. The only way to use a dog is to love it.

Somebody found Jerry loping starving along the highway and brought him to the pound. No collar, no chip. An awkward mutt, some sort of shepherd/chow mix with a mottled tongue and a head that was too big. He was a day away from execution when Mom walked in.

They made a good pair. He found an empty space in the bed and claimed it. He warned when danger, or the postman, got near. He listened to her gripe about dad. That guy was just a prick, he told her once. There’s nothing else you could have done.

Being away from your mom is a little hard. As a son, a mother’s decline is slightly easier to bear when she has a dog. I admit: I relied on Jerry. I relied on him to keep her company and to keep her safe. He committed to doing both. I didn’t even have to ask.

So, when she called and said that Jerry had a growth in his lung and there was nothing that they could do, I was upset. Naturally, I tried to play the man. I told her that she had given him a good life. I told her that she was doing the right thing. I told her to be proud of their friendship.

And then I hung up the phone and went to court and acted normally. I stepped up to the bench and said whatever I was supposed to say, but every few minutes I’d glance at the clock and shudder at the fast approach of 2:30, the dreaded hour.

At 3:30, I donned my strong man voice and called again. I expected sobs, but heard relief. We decided to try the surgery after all, she said. They told me that it might buy him a year and I looked at him and I could tell that he wasn’t ready, and neither am I.

It’s just a dog’s life, you know? He doesn’t write poetry and he doesn’t write music. He growls when he thinks he should and sometimes he gets it right – but mostly, he doesn’t. Yet, somehow, he walks this lonely path and brightens it. And though it’s a light that lasts as long as memory, it’s also nice to feel its warmth.

He still remembers the cold. And the beauty. Even the highway, lined with birches, was beautiful. It was his first time north of Boston. His first time seeing birches. Some of them really were bent forward like girls drying their hair in the sun. Just like the poet said.

The mountains loomed with dignity. The road wound through. He wanted to climb the peaks, to know them more by knowing them differently, but his old life demanded him. The plane would leave Manchester at 6:15.

As he drove, he wondered if to catch the plane would be wrong. He wondered if he should continue on to Littleton, to the roof of America, and live a new life. A life based on his desires, and not his competencies.

He wondered, even though he knew that he had no real talent for his desires. He had always had brains, but never strength. Never ruggedness. Never the right instincts. He could not distinguish berries from poison. He would not hunt.

He was natural to another life. A life of good things, like words, but also one of offices and windows that do not open. Of recycled air and vitaminless light. A life he could endure by sitting in the office, or on the train, and thinking on the moments that seemed to be true life, like the first time that he went to the Basin.

The parking lot was empty and covered in white. He opened the door and there was no sound but the distant Pemigewasset and the sporadic whush of trees shivering off snow.

He walked toward the river and watched the liquid dance behind the evergreens. Clear water running over rock. The crunch beneath his boots. Fox tracks.

The Pemi swirled into the deep bowl that formed the Basin. It was the prime of winter and some of the water had frozen into a curved ice sheet that glistened against the flow. A sign said that Thoreau had once been there. Thoreau, who fished in a stream called time.

He left the Basin, but took it with him. He carried it on the plane over America. He carried it up into tall buildings and down into the subway. Into dark places. Into holding cells with sad prison men. He used it when he needed it, to open the sealed windows and touch the clouds.

The Basin was a treasured moment. A pearl of experience spread unevenly with too few other pearls, on a thread of unknown length.

He was surprised, when he looked back,
at the things that stood out.
He was on a bench in the very early spring,
the time of year that cummings called mud-
luscious.
A blonde was reading nearby, legs crossed, shoe dangling.
New mothers by tulips yellow, orange, white.
The lonely toll of the flagpole halyard’s hollow clang
while children squealed, delighted by dogs.
Sudden sun, shadowy cool.
On a bench with a sandwich.
Life.

Driving, he sees a woman running. On a crosswalk overhead. Her skin behind the wire fence.

The first thing that he should do when he gets home is change into his running clothes. He should leash the dog and run.

He wants to run because he wants to be his best self, but not really because of that, and he knows it. If he runs, it’ll be because of what Mark Twain said – that there is nothing that cannot happen today, and that means maybe he’ll meet the woman and they’ll like each other, and that’s all that he’s ever really wanted in this world.

But that’s not going to happen. He knows it; he’s run before.

He used to run down canopy roads in Southern towns and be dappled by the sun. He used to run along New England streams and listen. It was beautiful, but he was alone and sometimes he felt panicked by his aloneness. By the houses in the distance with the doors and windows closed. Like his view of hell, which has no fire, but only a white emptiness with no sound but his own breathing. A being forgotten by society. A man in Tamms.

And he has run in the city too. Stopped at every light to let the cars pass. People who seem to know where they are going. He does not. He runs up and down streets like it means something.

But still, when he gets home, he should run. For his heart. For his lungs. You’re not flexible enough for a man your age, his wife tells him.

But when he gets home, he doesn’t run. Nor does he wash the dishes. Nor does he fry the sausage, though it soon will turn. Instead, he thinks of Takemitsu, who ruled his mortality by writing In The Woods as he was dying.

He remembers how he once told his wife that he wanted to play In The Woods.

Well then, you should.

But, it might take me three years to do it.

That time is going to pass anyway, so you might as well learn to play it.

What he thinks about most is the
feeling of being without her. He was
riding in the car and Dave said
John’s party is tonight and that
blonde from the opera will be
there. He leaned back and watched
the clouds through the windshield
and thought about telling Dave
that she had turned him down, but
said you can go if you want.
John and I don’t really get along.