She sat on my lap and leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
“You look so sad,” she said. “I don’t like it, stop.”
I kissed her lips and we pressed our foreheads together and stared into each other’s eyes.
I closed mine first and opened them to an airplane cabin.
You are never in control. The past is a parasite that sits in your mind, festering and feeding, constantly growing. It’s keeper, it’s captain is the heart. It demands what must be kept and thrown out. You are never in control. This process isn’t for you. It wasn’t made to benefit. It exists to haunt you, whether beautifully or ugly.
I ate my peanuts and watched the scenery of America slip by, wishing that memory were more of a portal than a movie. Something that could take me back and never let me leave. A prison where I could sit and be at peace, at will– but that’s the catch. It’s the lure that makes it. The-almost-there-ness of it all.
You’re almost there, almost here. In the slipstream of time you sit trapped entrenched somewhere in my neocortex.
You happened years ago, yet your memory is clearer than anything that’s happened in the last 15 minutes.