BArbara Walters. Period. Roni Endres
I awoke facing the wall, trying to grasp my bearings as I journeyed from dreamland to reality. My room was pitch black, minus the sliver of light peeking out from under the door, and dead silent, minus the heavy mouth breathing I suddenly realized was not in dreamland but as real as the puddle of drool adorning my pillow case. I turned to the direction of the rhythmic breaths. What I had assumed was light coming from under the door was actually the glow of the figure in front of me. “Barbara?” I rasped. I wasn’t scared, but confused. “Come,” she said. Except, what came out wasn’t words. It was a series of clicks and squeals, a pattern of noise that resembled echolocation. Yet, I understood her. Not only did I understand her, but it made sense. “Barbara,” I said, “you look different.” She looked younger, but her eyes still held ninety-two years of wisdom. She wore a green flannel robe, the collar of which settled just below the tattoo reading “NO REGRETS” across her neck. She hugged a copy of Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem to her breast and watched me as I took in her presence. 7
