I am standing on a wooden
walkway just above the beach
with its hot, white sand and

I’m looking out at all the blind-
ing white and directly in front
of me is a young, attractive

blond woman wearing a white,
silky, chiffon-like shoulder wrap
blowing in the wind over a white

bathing suit and in the next
minute I am standing next to
the young woman and I am stab-

bing her over and over and the
only color on the beach other
than all the white is the red

from the blood — gushing and
splashing and spilling down the
woman’s body into the hot, white

sand. I have this dream over and
over and over I tell the therapist
to whom I have been going since

my blond wife died in a day from
blood rushing through her brain.
He pauses and then says, “Why

do you keep stabbing yourself?”
Since that day, I have never
again had that dream.