She came to me in a dream - we were sitting side by side - not touching, but close. I wanted to see her, but chose the comfort of nearness over the familiarity of her face. I can never see her face in these dreams of mine. We sat in the TV room and all the furniture was out of place. There were so many other people milling about, but through, or over, or under the noise I heard her say, "Do you hear me? Can you hear me, Christy?"

I can hear you. I can feel you. I hear you every day.

Keep talking to me. I hate when my dreams are wasted on stupid things like finding a tiny dolphin swimming in the milk after I've finished my cereal. Keep talking to me, I hate dreaming about giant foam USA puzzles that are missing Rhode Island and South Dakota, uneven bookshelves and chasing down serial killers. Keep talking to me because I really can hear you. I wish I could staple together every dream of you, and store them in a box to take out when I wake up from dreaming about balance beam practice where all my standing back tucks are no big deal and I always crash on the dismount because the beam is never more than six inches off the ground.

I miss you so much.

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