Every day my daughter draws a picture of a dog, colors it with markers, and cuts it out, then cuts out a paper leash, a fringed paper pillow, and a paper bed. The dog’s name is Lily. I don’t know what to do with all these paper dogs. They are piling up to the ceiling. She gives them to me when she gets home from school, a time when I have missed her and she has missed me. The dogs remind me of this. All day, she has been somewhere else, finding time to remember me. This is remarkable. It is strange that someone who can’t see me should be thinking about me. It’s as strange as the word “orange.” Because I admire her drawings she makes them every day. Sometimes the dogs have collars, sometimes bows between their ears. Sometimes tongues. The dogs seem tired, but I don’t say so. The dogs started off small, about the size of my hand, but now they are bigger, about the size of a platter. They have brown fur and orange stomachs, which makes them look like robins. Their eyes are very large, and they appear to sparkle because of the way she colors them, with “three white dots, going up.” Someone taught her this, somewhere. I have been in this house for too long.
Dream: I am walking in a meadow between white mountains. The ground is covered with grass that feels like a cheap sponge. I don’t carry anything. I have no supplies and no hat. There are a few people nearby, but there are no planes. I can’t see anyone’s face. I don’t want anything to eat. Part of the land is brown because of so much rain and time. Everything is huge and memorable.