The billboard read: Say NO. We don’t need another state-run hospital murdering our unborn babies.

Clearly, I am driving through a Catholic community. It’s small. A lot of classic cars. Railroad tracks. Cornfields. And bridges. And a distinct lack of racial diversity. And church-run hospital’s sponsoring billboards.

No homeless people. No one goes hungry. No one is cold. All of the beautiful white children excel in school. Everyone’s needs are met.

Yes, the American dream is still alive and well in this place. There is no need for abortion here. Because no one has any unfulfilled needs or wants. And everyone is wanted.

And this is where you are relocating. Your new and happy family. Three bright children with another on the way.

I’ve never understood your desire for more children. I don’t even think you’re Catholic, yet I’ve never asked either. But you’re happy here.

As former lovers, you’re giving me an auto tour of this idyllic paradise. Is it South Dakota? It sure looks like it… but in the sixties. Don Draper, eat your heart out.

As we’re driving around this small community, and you’re sharing in great detail, all of your hopes and dreams for your new family, the right wheels of the car keep dipping into the shoulder.

Yet, I say nothing. It’s not in my character to tell you you’re doing something wrong.

The tour continues. Frequently, the right side dipping into the shoulder. Then off the shoulder.

You’re so bright and happy. Your voice and eyes both filled with the delight of your new life. And I listen. Dutifully. Excitedly. It really does sound wonderful.

We tap a curb. Run over a toy on the side of the road. As we head towards an overpass. And towards the river.

As we exit the overpass, the wheels dip off again, onto a strategically placed trailer, which guides us back onto the road. You don’t even notice. No damage. No harm. No foul. Just an enjoyable li’l adventure.

Then over the bridge. Over the river. We’re remarkably close to the right side of the bridge, in this small community where there are no guides. Just a drop.

As the bridge ends, the river turns to run along the right side of the road.

I continue to say nothing about how close you ride to the right side of the road.

And as we exit the bridge. And the road. And into the river. In your last breath, you ask me, “Why?”

Why didn’t I tell you? Why did I let you kill us both? You, filled with joy and aliveness, and myself, filled with despair and dead inside.

—

I sit up awake. Is this what I do to others?

How much stock should we put into our dreams? Are they trying to send us messages we’re too stupid to receive when we’re awake?