In my dream last night, basketball was on
and Sheed was a three-point machine, shooting
half-court shots that were nothing

but net. Last year, I told my boyfriend
to watch his step on ice and when
did I get so protective, so quick to keep

everyone safe around me? Sheed was never
a three-point machine but he hit when
he needed to. Sheed was defense and

attitude and tattoos of the sun. On the phone,
I ask a friend if her husband is doing better,
if his dreams have gotten less filled

with terror. She tells me some nights
are better than others. And I think
that aging is often like that: we take

our better where we find it. When
Sheed was a Celtic and in the playoffs
that final year, I saw him clutch

his back, the pain clear on his face
and, I thought, some day, I will
understand this loss.