Across from the charred white bar and grill, in the place where the Irish still bury their dead, I stood next to your grave.

Looking at it then, it didn't seem so final. There was a light that fell across the marker the amber color of an empty pill bottle.

And the distance was false. You were gone but here, like the picture you took of sailboats on TV. Like the handwriting on a letter you wrote in 1961.

As the light faded, my vision narrowed, and I saw the grave had grown four legs and a long, prehensile tail. I watched as it crawled away, a green, stone-headed creature, in a halo of blue whatever.