I don’t mean to go to the river, but that’s where I end up. The tail end of my miscarriage is the worst. It’s going out with a fight. Today is the day Bob Dylan is in town. We cannot break up before the show. Nothing is important but Bob Dylan. I am a girl sitting on the rocks next to the river. I pick up all the shells around me, but each one has splotches of white, as if someone had painted a room and carelessly let the paint fall. I collect them anyway, filling an old coffee cup. Glass, a feather, styrofoam and a coke bag join them. Maybe I will make a sculpture. Maybe I will go crazy making tiny sculptures of junk, in my sad bedroom with the avocado walls. My dots of rubber cement will be perfect, and the paint-splattered shells with rise erect from the pile of trash.
People are fishing and doing things. Old men who look like they awoke in their lawn chairs. Their backs are to me and they are still as statues. I wish I hadn’t quit smoking. I quit smoking when I was pregnant, and now I wish I hadn’t.
On my walk back from the river I pass a huge oak with a house behind it. The oak has a swing with a forever rope. Then a firetruck with no one in it; doors open and a lady on the radio: asking, asking.
I need to see Bob Dylan tonight. I can be far back in the crowd- I will imagine his face. I will be the only one who hears him.