Street lamps punched holes in the damp summer night and cut gauzy rings on a lingering dusk as I walked to the truck, tired.

I would have gladly cried and bled for a few more words as I sat there in a 44 year old Ford with my head on the wheel, looking across a tilted landscape's shadows and painted lines.

A stray thought buzzed and I wove my pen across the page. A strand of Neil Young skipped through, and I remembered my father's mother in a dream. She wrote a note and left it under a magnet in the kitchen. Hours ago as I slept I read the note, but the words have gotten lost.

She died at home in bed on a sunny day smiling. In the days before, she had lifted her head to smile at her sister and had once waved to Gertrude who had been gone for years. The woman who had cared for my grandmother left the house, crossed the street and leaned against the bridge rail as water flew by beneath us.

Once someone dies, I can't go back in the house, she said. In my dream last night I had gone back, and my grandmother was home. I wish I could see that note -- red letters covered by a magnet holding the small scrap in place.

Lily is with me. She is made of unforgettable things.