Bird on a wire

I have slept for a month, metaphorically, in that I’ve not written. Before I began this story that I am unfolding “live,” I’d slept for three years: When husband D. left me, the writing stopped.This month while I slept, two more d.’s pursued: the crazy psychiatrist and the CEO. One scared me with his silent and then spoken presence; the other wrote of death, the death of the woman he has loved since losing his wife. But he never says “loved.” He says “my love.” Perhaps better. Actually his last e-mail had the subject line: “Perhaps …” with a message of her dying and a message of his hope for her and perhaps for me. It was honorable and clear and careful. I suggested that a phone call was in order, that this message could not be served by e-mail. And he called. And I spoke the truth about the man who left me, about the door I have opened, about the door that husband D. opened: bird out of the cage, bird on a wire. And then I slept a literal sleep and dreamt a dream I was certain was real and then unreal inside the dream: I looked out a window. Sky and water merged and in the mix I saw iridescent blue-black birds, yellow-blue-black fish all on limbs of trees. Through the glass, safe inside a house with a large kitchen, my pots hung again. But how could fish and fowl, light and small as they were come to my tree? How could they, so rare in size and startled color, come so close to me?