What Dreams May Come

She dances in and out of my sight, especially at night, when I am in the otherworldly twilight between wakefulness and sleep. She's got auburn hair, of course, and she has fickle eyes, today blue, tomorrow brown, or even green. She holds one dimpled hand up in front of her mouth when she giggles; it's a shy and endearing habit. All sweetness and light, she leaves a delicate and thoughtful footprint wherever she goes.

Now and then she can be intractably stubborn, but it is easy enough to distract her, and finally, to delight her. Her big brothers trip over themselves in their desire to show her the sun, and the moon, and everything in between.

She wears this dress when she is three, and I never forget how she looks in it: she is a fairy, a sprite, an ethereal creature. She is my daughter. I hold on to the dress long after it's too small for her, and, decades later, when I am past old, I come upon it in the attic, and with my fingers I trace out its intricate pattern. I bury my head in it but am able to catch only the faintest musty odor. There is no piece of her remaining in the folds of this garment.

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Her name is Melody, and she waits for me on the other side of a door; I do not yet know which door. Perhaps it is only when I am close to death, when I curl my tired hands into my boys' warm and vital palms, that the directions I must follow to find her will open up to me in the way of a road map, bulky and awkward but finally reassuringly detailed. Maybe she is my next life's work. I will be grateful if that is so. Oh, do not doubt that I am content with how things are; I know that I am blessed to have three lovely and loving boys, gentle souls all of them. But there is room for one more. There is room for Melody, the girl in the dress, the girl who visits me when I am most vulnerable, most receptive, most willing to entertain the idea of her.