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No red or orange leaves litter the road. No wild, fierce autumn storm. No tree limb tears through the convertible’s cloth. Sometimes I dream I erase time. No jagged gashes disturb his face; no glass slivers embed in his skin. The cracked casing, my husband’s skull, still a perfect, whole shell; his eyes, gentle yolks; his smile, a sun. No crowd overflows the funeral home; I do not sing to his corpse. Sometimes I dream Humpty Dumpty sits safely on the wall. It is only me who falls.
