I write to Miles a lot. I write letters. I tell him what is going on as if he is away at camp or on a long vacation. I also tell him how I am feeling. I share with him my ups and downs. I tell him what made me break down in tears. I tell him about the dreams I had where he was present or missing.
Last night, I dreamed I was on a college campus, but in fact it was my high school. The halls were busy. The air was the mixture of late summer heat and early morning dew combined with the antiseptic odor of the building, cleaned for the new year after three months of inactivity. I walked the halls and it occurred to me that Miles should be here. He should be on campus in the fall–somewhere– for his first day of college classes. I found a spot away from people and I cried. Someone was nearby, someone I used to work with at a college. He saw me and he started telling dumb jokes in a ham-handed attempt to cheer me up. It was so pathetic that I had to acknowledge it just to make him go away. I wandered off the campus and into the forest on a back road. I saw a woman with car trouble and I walked past her.
I write to Miles about my experiences and I speak directly to him. As I write, I realize that I am writing for a way back. I am leaving rocks along my path so that I can follow them back to the places I can only now know through remembering. I tell him about what happened in my day and I tell him about what memories of his life were prompted by my dreams and experiences. I am developing a mnemonic I can use to follow my way back to something akin to him.
The paths are strewn with rocks and stones. They are there in case I need them to get back home.