In the Dream, Dolly Offers to Officiate
Mid-autumn. Smoky Mountains. Here in the land she and my love are from. Here on the day we thought would never come. Yellow birch. Black cherry. Northern red oak. Our rainbow. And long ago, before the blight, American chestnut everywhere. I dream them back in. I dream us beneath them. Once, this land was only a postcard to me. Bonnie flew to Dollywood from the West Coast and wrote “Guess where I am!” Exclamation mark, not question mark, because we already knew. On my placemat, the state was copper, like a penny, and longer than you’d think it would be. Until I drove it, Memphis to Knoxville, Memphis to Chattanooga, the droll hours with my love beside me. Listening to Dolly, of course: Islands in the Stream, Jolene, I Will Always Love You. That one twice, three times: Dolly, Whitney, then Dolly again. We have lived through the blight, the long ban. Now we stand in the shadow of the bright trees as a spangled woman walks toward us, humming. The leaves in her hair, golden and cordate. Her hands extended, the sparkling nails. “Guess what we’re here to celebrate!” Exclamation mark, not question mark, because we already knew.