Such stuff as dreams are made of

I came across a girl at the beach. I was out walking with the dogs and my Dad, when we became separated from the puppies. We turned and walked back, calling as we went, and some people shouted out to us, “here they are!”

Two were friends of my brother’s, or acquaintances, and the third was a girl.

She was so beautiful, I forgot sense for an instant and dreamt of a future, less an idea and more a feeling, perfect. She was a ghost, a platonic form, our meeting a reunion with one I’d loved with all my heart: first elation, then redoubled misery with the truth she couldn’t be real, as though seeing one long dead in a crowd-- the dawning that It’s been so long since I felt anything similar, because I’ve learned slowly, unconsciously, not to dream of love.

I can say she was beautiful, and she was, but what does that tell you? She was a dream-- just rosy skin, sunlit hair, and two steady, green eyes against the snowy seashore.