And the letter was already there.  Between them.  And it hadn’t changed at all.  It was an immovable object.  Not trapped in a time but passing hands.  Opened and then closed again.  It rested by a vase of dead flowers.  The child’s (Solomon’s) diapers and an empty coffee can the only other things on the table.  And maybe it has a voice too a voice in a child’s dream the lovers awake the past before them cluttered and not only the night before and yesterday but things they remember before they even knew each other and if that was in somehow the reasons they met how a whole other life could have happened if they hadn’t in what happens every day in people we see in what we envy and covet what makes us happy the troubled discernment of a past where you remember what hurt you and what made you happy and is this person somehow a part of that the hurt and pain the joy of a shared reality in space and time or just a casual acquaintance a someone when you meet you say:  We have nothing in common.  Where you live is not where I live.  Where I go is not where you go her lover (Dulcinea’s) maybe even having a different God.  But what happens when you listen to it—the voice of another God what God is to Dulcinea to her parents to how she was raised what maybe she wanted to be found hiding in that tree as a teenager a tree house in Hemphill, Texas in the late sixties a child forming in her womb and the Sabine River nearby and the members of her family who’ve crossed it in the past what she came from the souls of a demographic their voices too whispering as you wake to the day and remember who you were before you were ever in love and this is why she wants to warn her lover warn him of a curse in all love and the grave a you shouldn’t read it you should never listen to it—the voice of that letter for it is the voice of Dulcinea’s mother read to music her father’s music almost like they decided to create something together they made love and had children…  And the letter was already there.  It could not say:  I had it but it is better to not have had it all.  Go back.  Return to those first things.  The wretched memories of what you experienced the moments of bliss the frazzled passion and hopeless insanities you will come to say in your confusion and loneliness I wish I had never learned to read better to have never been born than know what I know…  Yes this voice too in a child’s dream.  In Solomon who David named not by some coerced compulsion but to have it to say yes I had it and it is better than to have never had it at all to learn to love my people the window into another world the world of your lover’s past and their God…  And it hadn’t changed at all—the letter.  What happened after it was read couldn’t be changed.  Benjy was dead.  His voice dying in the love it couldn’t have.  And Maddie too—yes see her death too and the stories surrounding it.  The stories as to why David could no longer hear in one ear.  Let the child read it in his dream.  Read it and decide his God.  And so Dulcinea’s hand reaches out.  It reaches out and pushes the letter away from the vase of dead flowers pushes it like some unstoppable force across the table towards her lover so that he may read it again as if he had written it in their bed of embrace as if his fingers caressed it on her lower back:


I am the other woman to your other man.  Don’t ask me how I found you for the reason I’m writing you is to not ask questions but find answers…