David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey

           Sometimesthelittleboywhocallsmefatherbringsmeaninvitationfromhismother:“Ishallbesopleasedifyouwillcomeandseeme,”andIalwaysreplyinsomesuchwordsasthese:“Dearmadam,Idecline.”AndifDavidaskswhyIdecline,IexplainthatitisbecauseIhavenodesiretomeetthewoman.

           “Comethistime,father,”heurgedlately,“foritisherbirthday,andsheistwenty-six,”whichissogreatanagetoDavid,thatIthinkhefearsshecannotlastmuchlonger.

           “Twenty-six,isshe,David?”Ireplied.“TellherIsaidshelooksmore.”

           Ihadmydeliciousdreamthatnight.IdreamtthatItoowastwenty-six,whichwasalongtimeago,andthatItooktraintoaplacecalledmyhome,whosewhereaboutsIseenotinmywakinghours,andwhenIalightedatthestationadearlostlovewaswaitingforme,andwewentawaytogether.Shemetmeinnoecstasyofemotion,norwasIsurprisedtofindherthere;itwasasifwehadbeenmarriedforyearsandpartedforaday.IliketothinkthatIgavehersomeofthethingstocarry.

           WereItotellmydelightfuldreamtoDavid’smother,towhomIhaveneverinmylifeaddressedoneword,shewoulddroopherheadandraiseitbravely,toimplythatImakeherverysadbutveryproud,andshewouldbewishfultolendmeherabsurdlittlepockethandkerchief.Andthen,hadItheheart,Imightmakeadisclosurethatwouldstartleher,foritisnotthefaceofDavid’smotherthatIseeinmydreams.