Is Impossible

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“Back where I’m from,” I said,
“we have these things called fairs.
It’s like a carnival

with games where you win a
framed mirror with a band’s
logo or a stuffed cow

if you can knock over
a stack of milk bottles
with a softball you throw.

The game is rigged, though, so
you never really win.
It’s just fun to play, you

know? When you wear out your
arm you can ride rides like
the tea cups or a small

ferris wheel. When you’re done
with that, you go to the
food area and buy

a corn dog and a Coke
along with a funnel
cake or elephant ear

you share with the person
you went there with. They’re fun,
fairs. I’ve always loved them.

Anyway, I dreamt I
was at one with you. This
was years ago, before

I knew this place was here.
There you were, lovely as
could be in a ball cap

with your hair pulled up in
a ponytail. You were
wearing a zipped-up black

hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans
and a pair of Converse
Chuck Taylor All Star shoes.

You turned to me and your
lips moved, but I couldn’t
hear what you were saying.

I asked you to write it
down, and you did. Your pen
wrote, ‘Can we go to a

pumpkin patch tomorrow
and ride on a hayride?’
I nodded and smiled.

So did you. It was great.
It was friendly. Even
though I didn’t know you,

I felt as if I did.
Then you started writing
again and the page asked,

‘Are we going to a
Haunted House next?’ Once more
I nodded and so did

you. That’s when I woke up.
Now here we are, just the
two of us. I mean, this…”

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