I dreamed my mother was back in assisted living (and oh, are the mother dreams going to begin now?) and a man showed up, his name was Monroe, like Gibson's middle name, and he was a son of my mother's, a long-lost son she'd given up but younger than me and I wondered how in hell she'd pulled that one off because as a child I studied every breath she took, worried every moment about her, never able to take an easy breath myself (I was just a little child!) because I was so intensely worried every moment of every day and every long, hot night in that little house near the river farther south than here on the East coast of Florida, she was so alone.
Well, this guy was a big guy, and he wore a sheriff's badge on his white shirt, my half brother, Monroe.
As far as I know there is no Monroe the Sheriff, just a dream, but I wonder what secrets my mother did keep and I will never know now. Everyone who might have known is gone and that's okay. We all have secrets we might want to keep to our graves. That's our right and this whole idea that total honesty is the way to go may be misguided in my opinion but some of the secrets have to be let out or they destroy us and that's the truth.
There is nothing clear in this world, it seems to me sometimes.
The boys will be coming, the storm is passed. There is one white candle of a magnolia bud I can see on the great, old tree a few steps from my back door and it will open today and flood this porch with scent, I will point it out to Owen, I will hold Gibson up to smell it, maybe their minds will keep the secret of the scent of the magnolia their grandmother showed them on a day in June after a tropical storm passed when they were but bitty boys, one of them in her arms, and maybe not, but either way, it won't be a secret which is dangerous, just one that if recalled in any way, might bring a smile as in a dream.
The storm has passed, the morning is coming, so are those boys.