I was a young man, and my college roommate had promised an elderly Jewish woman that I would perform the music at one of her family rituals. I was horrified because I knew I was no musician. I dug around in our dorm room, looking for the instrument I would play. I found it in one of the many backpacks in the closet — an accordion.

I met the woman at midnight in the rain. I knew I was not a good musician like those who play by ear and from memory, so I asked for sheet music. My roommate produced a single sheet that somehow contained the music for nine tunes; I was to play eight of them.

He held the music up for me to see, but I was too nearsighted. I felt that this didn’t bode well for this rainy midnight audition or my future performance.

I was a girl at a church service. It had been raining. During the service, someone moved a pillar, and a torrent of water poured from under it. I assumed that the books kept in it had stayed dry and wondered how. More water ran out from within another pillar.

I noticed a man and recognized him as my future lover. Did he know me, too? I watched him discreetly, looking him over and thinking that someday all of that would be mine. It was a delicious thought.

The minister was talking about a heroic bird that had performed a brave deed. I found the bird, which was a wooden statue of a one-legged robin, near a verdant ditch. At first I thought it was dead, but when I realized it was only a representation, I began to stroke it.

I was aware that my mother was glancing at me with disapproval because she believed it to be a dead bird, but my thoughts were only of my future lover and his attention. I dreamed that I had it. I began to sense his growing interest and need.