The dream always ends the same. Jim says “always”. We kiss. I wake up.

It is always so real, the dream, that waking up in our queen sized bed that is only warm on my side is like reliving the moment that the dress-uniformed soldier knocked on my door and destroyed my world. I can still see his white-gloved hands adjusting his cap, in the rounded and distorted view the peephole before I opened my door. We don’t, I don’t, live in the best neighborhood.

Missing. Presumed dead. Something about Kandahar. I don’t remember much else. The pounding of my heart and the blood rushing in my ears were deafening.

It has been five years now. They never found him, and I keep having the dream. The dream is so real. Jim is so warm and solid. So present. Maybe this is the dream. These long days of quiet rooms and daytime television. If my life has become a dream, a nightmare, then what are my dreams?

Presumed dead. That’s what the soldier said. Presumed.

I go online and buy a one-way ticket to Kandahar.