What Our Dead Do

Jan came this morning —I dreamt of my father he says he was riding in an oak coffin I walked next to the hearse and father turned to me: you dressed me nicely and the funeral is very beautiful at this time of year so many flowers it must have cost a lot don’t worry about it father —I say—let people see we loved you that we spared nothing six men in black livery walk nicely at our sides father thought for a while and said—the key to the desk is in the silver inkwell there is still some money in the second drawer on the left with this money—I say— we will buy you a gravestone a large one of black marble it isn’t necessary—says father— better give it to the poor six men in black livery walk nicely at our sides they carry burning lanterns again he seemed to be thinking —take care of the flowers in the garden cover them for the winter I don’t want them to be wasted you are the oldest—he says— from a little felt bag behind the painting take out the cuff links with real pearls let them bring you luck my mother gave them to me when I finished high school then he didn’t say anything he must have entered a deeper sleep this is how our dead look after us they warn us through dreams bring back lost money hunt for jobs whisper the numbers of lottery tickets or when they can’t do this knock with their fingers on the windows and out of gratitude we imagine immortality for them snug as the burrow of a mouse