A two-toned, red and white Chevy pickup truck was parked in a bare spot which wouldn’t grow grass underneath the shaded limbs of one of the two magnificent pecan trees which dominated either side of the old farm house’s front walk. From the covered front porch the excited voice of Eli Gold could be heard describing action from The Charlotte Motor Speedway clear out to the road, even through the hand-sized transistor radio. Beside the truck, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a dripping sponge in hand, a man was caught in a curious pause from his truck washing, having stopped to watch his four year old at play. The child was behaving in an unusual, if enticing manner, having climbed down inside her pink, pedal-powered plastic Barbie car to remove the bicycle-chain linkage which acted as the little car’s transmission. The man’s ’Lil Miss had managed to identify the master link, then had used some unknown tool to pry it apart, and was currently attempting to shorten, or tighten up some slack which had grown with time and use between the gear sprockets.

The man with the dripping sponge didn’t have nearly enough time at home with the kids, so it was with great effort that he resisted the urge to jump in and help his baby girl, though it appeared that his youngest had gotten herself into something that he was uncertain if she could resolve on her own. A good father, the man determined to let her try, just as he would have let her older Bubba try.

The child’s chubby, undeveloped fingers struggled with the tiny pieces of linkage. He watched as she dropped a part, found it again, and spent some time figuring how it fit back with the larger pieces. But she did figure it out! His pride swelled nearly to bursting as he watched her remove a link from the chain and slowly jigsaw the thing back together. Unable to contain himself any longer the man finally did step in as his little girl fought to snap the master link back together again, knowing she would not have the strength to do it.

”Here.” He handed a pair of pliers up under the toy car’s chassis, then he watched on amazed as his Missy pondered the pliers for a long moment before finally gripping them correctly, centering the linkage between their jaws, and snapping the chain almost expertly back together with them.

”Fixed it.”

”Yes! Yes, you did. And you made a nice job of it, too!” There was no camera present, so the man made a snapshot of the moment in his mind, desperate to hold on to the memory of it forever.

But the child’s expression remained serious. She took the car in a quick, neat circle around her father before handing up the pliers to him. ”It needs woobwicant.”

After a moment lost in translation the man chuckled aloud, the pride which had swelled his breast having pushed its way up through his choking neck and into his eyes, embarrassing him no little bit. “Yes Missy, it probably does need some lubricant, but how could you know about that?”

”Fiwabaw is teaching me to be a wace caw dwivuh.”

”Fiwabaw? Fireball? Fireball Roberts?

The girl’s smiled sparkled. “Yea! Fiwabaw!”

”Honey, Fireball Roberts has been dead twenty years!”

Ignored, the man was forced to keep up as the little car sped off towards his tool bench in the barn, and the can of 3in1 oil atop it. He watched from the doorway as his baby girl expertly held the can in place, turning the car’s pedal to rotate and lubricate the entirety of the chain beneath the can’s dripping tip as if she’d done it hundreds, or even thousands, of times.

”Fireball Roberts, huh?” He smiled as he said the name.

”Yea! Fiwabaw!”

You know, Fireball was your Grampa’s favorite, back in the day.”

”Yea! Gwampaw!”

The truck gears ground down as the man pulled out onto the highway towards both town and the Western Auto, his Lil Missy perched happily up on the seat beside him. Momma wasn’t gonna like it one bit, but who was a mother to interfere with fate?

Daddy’s girl was getting herself a go-cart today!

It started back in the cemetery.

I used to call it a grave yard

But the man there gave me a sour eye.

I think I'll still call it a grave yard when I'm somewhere else

If I remember to.

There wasn't a lot that I remembered that day,

Just walking past stone after stone,

I don't remember any of the names,

Because I started to remember other things,

Things that were not mine to remember,

And somehow were.

There was a fight,

A battle.

Guns and dirt and grenades

And blood.

I tried not to remember the blood

But there it was.

And there was screaming,

So much screaming.

I always saw the worst ones,

Ones who came to the tent with missing limbs.

Some of the men were brave,

But it was always worse when they were screaming.

My hands could feel the cloth I used,

Bandaging, making splints, tourniquets,

The bottles of disinfectant,

The needles to make them sleep.

I blinked,

And suddenly there was a cloud on the hill.

A nurse in white was there.

She was my mother,

But she wasn't.

She just beckoned to me.

I can't, I thought,

I have to tend to them.

"Marcus!" she said

And the memories faded.

I was back in the cemetery.

"Come on, it's time to go!"

"You shouldn't shout,"

I said under my breath.

"What? Come on, baby, let's go.

"What were you doing out there so long?"

"Just remembering," I said.

She was quiet for a minute.

"Really? Remembering what?"

I was quiet for a minute.

"I don't know."

"Ya'll better hurry up, the storms blowing in."

The drawl whirled off her tongue as fast as the wind picked up in the sky.

Where did that come from? A dialect so distinct you would have thought we were deep in the boot of Missouri. But we weren't. We lived in Bozeman, Montana and she had never been out of the state.

Claire was 5 years old when she started to have break through speech impediments that consistently sounded like a midwestern woman in her 70's. It wasn't all the time but enough to make me worry.

"We need to see a specialist, Dan." I pleaded with my husband to make an appointment. He never got as worked up as I did about these things. I was the textbook helicopter parent. "People are going to think she is illiterate!" I screeched. He put his arm around me and laughed it off.

Ever since we adopted Claire, she was my world. As two dads who once thought having a family was just a dream, I wanted to protect the life we had built with everything I had in me. She came into our lives when she was only fourteen months old. Her biological mother was in her twenties at the time and had been trying to make it as a single mother in the slums of Billings, Montana. She eventually succumbed to her life of drugs and overdosed in the one-bedroom apartment she was being evicted from, leaving Claire to cry out into the night alone and scared. Eventually, one of the questionable neighbors who could no longer stand to hear the cries of a baby in the early hours of the morning came to beat down the door. When he found the lifeless young mother lying cold on a mattress in the middle of the room with Claire sitting next to her crying, he called 911. Officers arrived shortly and took Claire out of that scene she had been in so many times before and started the chapter to her new life.

We had been on the waiting list for 6 months before we got that phone call, and I was elated to finally start earning my new title of dad. Horrified of her back story, I swore to protect her at all costs and give her the best life I could.

"She is fine, Chris. It is her age. She is experimenting and finding new ways to communicate." He seemed annoyed that I was even bringing it up. "Remember when she came home from daycare after the first week and had a lisp?" We both smiled. "It was just a new discovery she had to try out for herself, but it went away just as fast as it came on. This will pass."

Maybe he was right. I was overreacting again. We packed up our bags at the park and headed to the car. After all, she was right a storm was moving into the area.

Once we returned home, I asked Claire what she would like for dinner. "Nothin beats fried chicken and mashed taters. I haven't had a good home cooked meal like that in years." Appalled I stopped and stared as she continued coloring at the kitchen table.

"Oh yeah? And who made you that meal?" I asked skeptically.

"Memaw used to make Sunday dinner after church each week. She taught me er'thing I know about good cookin. I s'pose that would be the last time I had a meal that good. Memaw's house." She had stopped coloring and was staring off as if lost in a deep memory of time that she vividly could see. She smiled and then returned to coloring.

I looked over at Dan who had walked in on the back end of the conversation, and he shrugged his shoulders and moved on.

"How about we order a pizza?" He said smiling and changing the conversation. He thought it was all just some sort of a game.

Dan and I stood next to each other in the kitchen, and I gave him the look that meant it was time to do something. He sighed and quietly said "It is just pretend, make-believe childhood fun." I wasn't having it. "It is getting worse." I urged.

"What are you two fairies yabbering on about in there?" Claire was now standing with her hands on her hips staring at us both.

We were stunned, frozen in time unsure of what just happened. She had never spoke like that before, and she had never been around anyone who would have taught her such phrasing.

"Claire?" I said soft and firmly.

"What daddy?" Her voice sweet and innocent as before. "Do you know what you just said?" Dan asked her, still taken back with what had just happened.

"I said what daddy." She smiled and shook her head as if he was the crazy one, and then skipped away to her room like normal.

"See! There is clearly something wrong. When are we going to do something? Are you waiting for us to walk in and find her smoking a pack of Marlboro reds while doing the daily crossword?"

Dan shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "It just doesn't make sense."

I walked over to the table where she was coloring before and looked down at the papers. My eyes widened and my heart stopped. Dan saw the shock on my face and quickly rushed to my side. "What is it?" He demanded.

Once he was next to me, we both stared down at her artwork mortified that any of this was actually happening.

A perfectly drawn Confederate flag filled the page she had been coloring.

"YEE HAW!" Claire exclaimed loudly down the hall from her bedroom.

"Okay, it is time." Dan agreed.

"I was you in a previous life," Hunter said--casually, matter-of-factly, even incidentally as he stacked the Lego blocks. I blew it off, and we finished the Lego truck.

"Why do we have to build?" he asked.

"We don't," I answered. "But it's how we live. We keep making things better and bigger."

"Oh," he replied. Five-year-olds typically accept the first answer that is delivered in a serious tone of good faith.

I went to the kitchen to help with the dishes when she, just as casually, said, "Hunter said he was you in a previous life."

"I know," I said. "He told me that, too."

"You don't find that weird?"

"He's five. File it away with the unicorns he's obsessed with."

"I suppose," she said, "but, still, it's strange. How he knows things."

"Like what?"

"Like how you used to sell Cutco knives in college, before you met me."

"That is strange. Anything else?"

"Yea, plenty."

"Really?"

"How your mother was killed by a drunk driver; how you had a drug problem that got you fired from your first job. Things like that."

"Wow. Weird. He probably just heard us talking."

"I don't think so. I don't think he heard us talking about how I had to prop up my pelvis after sex because that's what the doctor said. And it worked, and we had him."

"Now you're scaring me."

"I think most parents have stories like this, don't they?" she asked.

"No. Not like this," I replied. I was scared.

Hunter was watching Paw Patrol in the other room. I called him into the kitchen, and he came running. We had forgotten his ice cream and he must have figured on that. My wife handed him his treat.

"Hunter," I said. "You were me?"

"Yea," he said.

"Before?"

"Before I was born, but now, too."

"You must mean someone from a long time ago," my wife clarified.

"No," he said, "from right now."

"I don't get it," I admitted. "How can that be? I'm here now, and you say you lived a previous life?"

"Yes, Daddy; I was you."

"How long were you me?"

"Till you died," he answered.

"When was that?" I asked.

"Not for a while," Hunter replied. "Not till September 5, 2042."

We were both dumbstruck.

"But don't worry, Daddy," he answered. You'll just be me. Bigger and better? It's how we live, right?"

Dr. Seth Morgan, graduate with a Masters and Ph.D in Veterinary Medicine. Owned his own practice after his elderly mentor had peacefully passed with friends and family nearby. Passing on his equally stout and well-worn and loved office to the young apprentice twenty-three years old who happened to have an odd fascination somewhat off-kilter and unsettling to the rest. Of the man's family who were just a little stiffer whenever he got to talking about the matter.

When he told the elderly man he would be greeted in a beautiful light warm and full of a love inconceivable in this life try as we might to emulate it. Such all-encompassing love, forgiveness, and acceptance.

Asked if there were any other wishes, if he was truly sure, that his family would not appreciate to have the practice.

Dr. Seth Morgan was well-versed when it came to death.

In his office, in his operating room, and in his apartment and childhood home there were pictures of a boy. Blond hair and green eyes, down to the face shape and the way his ring finger was chosen to scratch when nervous an exact copy of Seth however not Seth.

Sixty-six seconds seemed to have made all the difference.

Could it be his younger brother had not had enough air? Had gotten hungry? Perhaps his elder brother would hold his neck too long in the womb? So that for a scant moment his eyes saw what was never meant to be seen. And so came about an affinity for this life, the creatures beyond human vision.

Then again, such experiences didn't explain future sight and surely not telepathy.

Dr. Seth Morgan reminisced often of those teenage years. Fall, the season of change and of the greatest pain, just after his brother succumbed to an unlucky genetic illness. When he'd been laid in a casket! At fourteen he'd been in a casket, in his best suit, and done up in the embalmers' makeup so he didn't look so decrepit and \\dead\\.

In everything he and Drake had been identical.

In adulthood Seth even had a knob on his head similar to one Drake obtained-- thank you Jieum Ban-- on an undead investigation.

The day was one of many in a heavy, humid summer fugue.

His secretary was young, eager, and constantly urgent.

However today her well-kempt, professional appearance was foregone. Hair across her face, cheeks furiously red when she'd unceremoniously thrown his office door open.

"Francine--" he greeted.

"There's a boy here to see you, his puppy's losing a lot of blood!"

And with that he stormed from his seat and into reception.

There were a few patients, some here for consult, but on a singular seat where many threw pitying glances was a boy all alone cradling a quivering mass of mutilated, fuzzy flesh slicked with blood. One of which scabbed over in even, equal scratches across the eye.

"Alright son, just give me the poor thing for now. Fran lead him in and kid," Seth said with warmth.

"Ye-- yeah?" he asked, voice warbled in his tears. Fat teardrops still flowed down his cheeks and snot began to trickle out of his nose.

"I'll need you to be brave for a second. So let's stand up," he complimented the child as he did, who used Seth's shoulder for support, "good you're doing well. Okay so I need your name, the puppy's name and what happened okay. And once that's done Francine can patch you alright."

"But-- but Brownie! He's never been without me before! He-- he needs and I need him!"

"Shhh, shh, I know I know, come on keep going," he urged. "Right now Brownie is fighting really hard and he's going to need help sooner than later."

The boy's breath hitched.

Continuing toward the operating room Seth turned back, smiling at the child. "It'll stress him if he hears you're crying. But I promise, on my job and my title that I'll do all I can. You did the right thing bringing him."

The child thought for just a moment, before his watery eyes set on their resolve.

"He got bit by another dog!"

And so did he. His leg wasn't bleeding anymore but the cut was still long and had stained his whole calf red.

"The owner said he'd gotten that awful monster his shots which yeah is probably true else animal control woulda taken him after he ate a stray cat and Mrs. Warbler's colorful birds."

"Dear," he replied.

"Yeah no kidding."

Turning the door open the boy shouted for the whole building to hear; "I trust you! So you better save him big brother!"

There was no time to think on it or to address the sudden rush that stole the air from his lungs.

What mattered now, was the sweet friend called Brownie.

Gently setting the dog on his side, he flicked on the overhead light.

Turn on the faucet, water boiling hot he washed his hands of the blood.

A pair of gloves snapped as he put them on over his hands.

Mask.

Surgery cap.

Francine had called ahead to have the set-up ready.

Then it means she had seen the child's injury too. That would be a mark positive for her evaluation tonight.

From just what he could see there were several lacerations across the pup's side.

Teeth had punctured the abdomen to the stomach.

They'd clamped down on the poor thing's neck too. He worked on getting a sheet over that so the poor thing could breathe.

Get him on a mask.

One of his interning veterinarians had came back on Francine's call as he readied to make the first incision.

__________________

\\Save him big brother!//

Seth had changed into clean scrubs as he went to face the child.

Seated in Francine's chair, spinning lazily.

His leg had been tightly bandaged and from the extra pink slip he'd been given a prescription for his physician and parents to look into.

"Oh hey..." any manner of cheer was bluntly dashed at the look. The pity.

And in the solemn way he pulled off the mask.

"I'm sorry son."

"But Seth, you studied. So hard and a whole lot. Vet school's hard."

"Yes it is, but I-- I'm not perfect."

He ignored just how this child knew his name. Perhaps he'd read something.

The tears came even as the boy tried to smile.

Continued and held his voice captive even as he tried to reassure the adult: "thank you. It's-- it's good you tried. You-- You did a good jo-o-o-ob!"

And he broke down.

"Hey, hey its going to be okay. That's alright just let it out, let it out," Seth soothed.

"Do you want a hug?"

"God this body cries too much!" the child screamed.

"Hmm I bet it does," he agreed.

"I wanna hug."

"Thanks big brother," he said into Seth's shirt.

"Okay listen, I can let you see him for a few minutes and then you'll have to call your parents so they can pick you up."

"Don't worry, I don't want to cause you trouble."

"That's good, come on," he said offering his hand.

"So big brother huh," Seth prompted, hopefully to get more information. He was well aware the most likely explanation was simply that he was in a state of distress and the child latched on to Seth for looking like an actual elder brother.

"Yes," he said. "You're my big brother. But I wish we didn't have to actually meet this way. I am really, really sad about Brownie but," the child squeezed tighter, "I've never felt too sad when you're around. Even when I died."

And Seth stopped.

His head went fuzzy and it distinctly felt that he would collapse. What-- no. No way. That was impossible.

But, he still had a child who was severely disturbed or something else wrong.

"I'm so proud of you. I saw all the drawings in your office," the child smiled.

The child with black hair, brown eyes and was Latino for crying out loud! This wasn't-- this wasn't real. Not like ghosts and restless spirits and ESPs were real. He had examples for those!

"Seth, Seth please don't be scared. Y'know I never did meet a reincarnated person so I didn't write about it in any notes or my diary. Hey what did you do with that by the way?"

"You aren't-- kid how long have you been in the sun? Have you eaten? Do you feel any pain besides your leg? Oh," he swallowed away the lump, "I didn't even ask. Does it hurt?"

"Did you get married?"

"That's not important," he said, now employing a much more stern tone. "We're talking about you and listen please just tell me your name."

"Oh, yeah my name's Enzo now. Lorenzo Ortiz."

"Okay, okay and you live around here Enzo?"

"Was it Maria?"

"The Mother Mary?" Seth tried.

"Oh Gods do you call her that? Does she hate it? Well alright, maybe a little less if you guys maybe realized some feelings were there after high school. Or did you reconnect after so many years in that little old town where she had the yellow picket-fence clubhouse?"

"Wh-- what?"

"Hey Seth! Took you long enough so come on tell me, tell me."

"That house--"

The yellow clubhouse that twenty years ago was probably a storage shed in the backyard of a newlywed or newly moved couple. He never did know as much about his friends' childhoods as he should.

What he did know is that in ten years, that yellow picket-fence clubhouse, was for the self-made Occult Club.

"Yeah, yeah," he dismissed. "But seriously how is everyone. Look I'm as surprised as anyone, I couldn't tell you who or what or why, much less even when it was decided for me. They got the math way off making me wait so long. Whoever they are."

"Maria. Maria Schaer?" Seth inquired, "En-- Lorenzo, do you mean Maria Schaer who lived at Blackberry Boulevard when she was-- when she--"

"Since she was born until I assume she moved out for college right? Okay not her then, soooo sweet, artistic Anne Danvers. I read about her, she's doing pretty well for herself as a gallery feature. God if only Mom, well new Mom, had the money for that sort of thing. But, I can always track her down when I'm a teenager."

And in his eye was a strong glint, the shine of a will much bigger than a body that size should feasibly be able to hold.

"Oh and our parents! Seth you haven't been too much trouble since I left right? I mean look at you, if you aren't engaged and girls are still obsessed with you but no surprise though you look like that," and there was an old sense of bitterness in that tone.

Again, completely discordant of a five year old.

"Drake!" he cut into his rambling, because he'd heard scant little about-- about the how that Drake could so helpfully explain.

There was no telling just how much Dr. Seth Morgan could take before clocking out early and hitting-- something. Likely copious amounts of Chinese food and sugar.

"How are you?" he asked quietly. Since for one, his dog had just died. Mauled to death. And he'd brought in the too small critter in alone.

It hadn't set well with him from the start.

"I don't get what you-- you're looking at me really weird. And I-- I can't tell what you're thinking? Is that weird I mean I at least, geez, we were never weird like that but still."

"It's okay. Take your time, this is, this is a lot. For me too."

He had come down to his knee, looking at him straight in the eye and just wanted to keep his hands clapped on this boy's shoulders forever. His clothes were of faded colors, bands with skulls and three sizes too big.

All not good.

"I am fine so please don't look like that. Teachers have been giving me those looks too and some of my Mom's sisters. They've been acting mean and I don't know why."

Drake crossed his arms, face in an epic pout. So that even when choked up and ready to explode Seth let out a small, watery laugh.

"Well then can you tell me, honestly, why you chose that shirt? It's way too big."

He looked down and then back at his brother as if he'd asked something quite stupid.

"I-- I liked it. I dunno I didn't before but I guess I do now. Oh one of my cousins, he plays his guitar all the time at his house. Said he played riffs in my ears from when I was one."

"Hah. Okay, okay you're a cool cat. And should I--"

He pointed at Drake's tiny ear. "Do you hear ringing or anything? How does my voice sound to you when I--" he drew out his lips into long, rounded vowels.

"Completely silly. I never noticed just how silly doctors were. Hey, do you think I could have been a good doctor? I mean most kids I handled were already dead..."

"I think you'd have been an excellent caretaker whatever way you chose to do it. If that was what you would have settled on."

"Did you ever get that spa off the ground?"

"Don't you even," he started, only for Drake to laugh. "I'm well alright I'm not sorry but I'll stop."

"So practically a little brother in this life then?"

Patting his head, Seth started to stand. Only for his knee to creak and a girly squeak to force itself out in response.

"GAaaggh."

It took more time than he'd care to think about to get back up so they could see the last of Brownie.

"What happened, did you get a bypass from an eighty year old or something Seth?"

"No," he snipped, "that's just what happens when you're middle aged."

"Don't let Mom and Dad hear you."

"No kidding."

"You seriously thought though, that my parents don't treat me right did you?"

"You have to admit wouldn't you? How many kids did you see that looked lost and abandoned that were actually dead?"

"Okay I see the point-- except I'm not."

"Not anymore."

"I came alone because home was too far and Mom would have asked too many questions. It would have-- it would have taken too long," Drake wrung his shirt, gazing down at it with melancholic eyes half closed a bit like his puppy.

Gently Seth unclamped his brother's hands from his shirt. "Just breathe alright. Listen we can wait in reception or we can spend some brother time in my office," he made sure to keep his voice somewhat muted, temps and assistants as well as the other two senior vets were walking around, "anyway we don't have to--"

"It's okay. I do want to. Please."

"Okay."

Drake gently caressed the dog's head, fingers just over where the eye had scarred.

His voice choked up. "I really, really loved him. He was actually what helped me remember stuff. I'd found him while walking with my friends, he was filthy, full of nicks and fleas too. My parents had to deep clean my clothes."

Seth simply stood in silence. Securely standing over him as he grieved.

"He'd almost bitten, until, I remembered somehow. To let him sniff, to speak slowly and gently and stay very still until it was ready to come out. Because you studied on that stuff. I remembered how you named your puppy Shadow! Since you found him at night and you almost missed him when walking to the bus or to home?"

"To home," Seth said. "And Shadow he, he passed away too. Just a year ago, maybe they'll meet each other."

"Yeah!"

Hand on his back they stood there awhile. And much like handling a puppy Seth was silent and he was attentive to any body language, any prompt to ask when.

All at his own pace.

When Drake was ready he turned for the doorway. "Let me tell Mom about you and you can meet her, she takes real good care of me. Promise."

"I'd like that."

Only a ruckus preceded their exit.

What sounded vaguely like a woman's voice.

Until both Francine and another older looking lady burst in. The latter scooped up Lorenzo in her arms.

"Hay mi cielo me distes un ambolismo. Que estabas pensando con ese perro talludo y por Dios ni llamastes, bueno no sabes el numero," she scolded, yet all the while nuzzling him close to her chest.

"Thank you sir, and I'm sorry if he's caused a fuss or caused a disturbance," she rounded, in a thick accent that Seth could only guess might have been Cuban of all things.

"No senora, era una alegria. La cosa es su perrito--"

"Si donde esta el pobrecito?"

"Ahi. Perdoname."

"Ay hiciste todo lo posible estoy segura."

Seth couldn't help the degree of confusion but answered in the affirmative anyway.

"Si perdon, my English. Isn't good yet."

"No worry at all," Seth assured, "but senora may I speak on something? Your son-- Lorenzo--" and his face just twisted. Because much as he was now Lorenzo Ortiz he was also Drake. His Drake. His twin.

"Te dijo entonces. Esa historia de la otra vida y el gemelo."

"Senora, me dijo de su perrito, como el mio. Me dijo de mis amigas."

"Una obsesion, casi enfermo de esta clinica desde que podia leer."

"Leer. Read?"

"Desde que tenia tres. Veterinario-- vet-- su palabra favorita."

Windows are pretty. In winter they have the cold stuff on them and I can draw. I like to draw pictures of myself. I draw cats, my favorite animal. I also draw the birdies that I see. When it rains I press my hand to window and try to stop the drops from getting to the other side of my hand.

Today we are going to the store with Mommy and Daddy and big brother. It's cold today. Mommy says I have to wear my coat so I don't catch cold. That's funny! I try to catch raindrops but I never tried to catch cold. I wonder how.

Little houses blur past the windows. If I bring my fist close to my face, it's way bigger than the houses. That's funny too!

We drive into the spot with the playground. I sit up in my booster seat and kick my legs. I want to go there!

"It's too cold, sweetie." Mommy says.

I don't answer, a single tree stands in the park.

Why does that tree look familiar?

*Wintery wind whips at my cheeks, my hair. Each blow feels like I've been struck by a sharp blade. My face is red, I can't see it but I know. Stumbling with each step, I make my way up the hill, the snow catching at my feet, dropping me knee deep. Struggling, I pull myself onto the top of the hill, the world turning bluish-white before my eyes. I can't see. A single tree stands on the flat of the hill, it comes into focus, just barely. It's covered so thickly in white that it looks almost full. Full like the green leaves of summer, green and vibrant. I collapse, the cold snow biting into my skin and cushioning my fall. I keep my eyes on the tree. We are the same, just two things clinging to life in this barren winter. I let out a shuddering laugh, eventually it gains strength. I grows and grows and before I know it I am screaming. Staring at the twirls of snow that fall out of the stark gray sky.*

I blink. We are at the store. I hope we can buy yogurt. I like yogurt!

"C'mon sweetie. You dozed off."

I beam at Mommy, "Am I a sleepy little bunny?"

Mommy smiles, "Yes you are, sweetie!"

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"I think I had a dream."

"What was it about?"

"I can't remember. Can we get yogurt?"

"Sure."

"Yay!"

I fit my arm through the open space between the bars connected to the garage and the front entrance. After lifting the heavy metal lock holding the garage door in its place, I slowly push the door into a gap large enough for me to slide through.

I observe my surroundings– our front garden is wild. The grass lies a few inches below my knees, the roses have wilted, the fresno tree and the palm tree reach for the sky, taller than they ever were before, sending the entire area into the shadows.

The front door is coated in a thin layer of dust. Cobwebs hang delicately from the golden doorknob. The plants beside me smell like fresh dew.

There appears to be no one inside the house, but I can hear hushed voices from what appears to be a casual conversation. Someone laughs. There are outlines of people, but their faces are blurred. A man, perhaps. A woman. A young boy.

Am I really there?

I wiggle the handle, feeling it stand firmly against the weight of my hand.

Knowing the door will not budge, I remember the laundry room we never locked that led straight to the kitchen.

I walk down the small path stretched along the side of the house. It had a fence separating the alley from the backyard. Our dog would oftentimes frantically dig holes beneath it during firework season in an attempt to outrun the blasts of sound.

The rugged cement on the floor showcases the paw-prints of feral cats who roamed the house before we moved in, when the mix was still wet.

I used to trace those paw prints with chalk– the powder coated my fingers.

The grass is even longer on this side.

The fence that separated the alley from the backyard is shorter; I can easily climb over it.

I land on the loud crunch of piles and piles of wilted leaves and unruly weeds.

It is strange to see the yard empty. A pang of sadness overwhelms my stomach.

I can almost hear our dogs running around the yard.

I can almost see our oldest one walking on his same worn path on the grass from one end to the other as we called him inside.

Everything lies in stillness. Not a single sound. Not even a miserable cricket.

There is no one there.

I am all alone.

The door leading to the laundry room is open. It does not creak.

The machines themselves are reddened with rust, but the scent of detergent still wafts from them.

The inside of the house is the same.

Clouds of dust form tornados with every single one of my footsteps.

The piano is there, even with a few of the knick-knacks we kept on top of it;

its deep cherry wood is as vivid and beautiful as it ever was.

I press a few of the keys. They are out of tune. The sound of the notes sound as though they are underwater, or very far away. The whispers become louder, more frantic.

Maybe we can tune it again someday, I think absentmindedly.

I head toward the staircase, pressing the tips of my fingers against the walls. The first sight I encounter at the top of the stairs: the cabinet where we kept crafting paper with its two swinging doors that would never fully close. I try once again to slam them shut, for old times’ sake. The bodiless whispers that followed along completely disappear at the first impatient slam on my part. For some reason, the air around me reverberates with fear.

Damn doors still won’t close.

The balcony overlooking the living room from the second floor is closer to the ground.

Our rooms are the same color they were before we coated them with eggshell white paint: a deep turquoise.

A few of our belongings piled neatly on our beds.

The farewell cards, a dry bouquet of flowers, markers that suddenly ran out of ink.

Why do I feel watched? Why are these voices here?

I see my reflection on the dirtied surface of the mirror my sister hung on her side of the room: I am barely a grey shadow. Every part of me is translucent, and my clothes seem old and out of place.

That’s when it hits me.

What if the house is not actually intact?

What if there already are people living there and they see a different version of what I think is standing before me?

Maybe I am the uninvited guest in this home that is no longer my own–

Maybe I am the ghost of my own memory.

I smile in my sleep.

The Echo of Forgotten Lives

Once upon a time, in the heart of Soria, lived a young boy named Eli. Eli was not like other children his age. He had an uncanny ability to describe places he had never been, people he had never met, and sometimes used words or phrases that seemed beyond his vocabulary.

Eli would often talk about a bustling city with towering skyscrapers, a place he called "The City of Lights". He described the city in such vivid detail that it felt as if he had lived there. He spoke of the hustle and bustle, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the bakeries, and the sound of the city's heartbeat echoing in the streets. It was a place he had never visited, yet he knew it as if it were his own backyard.

He also spoke of a woman named Clara, a woman with a kind smile and warm eyes. He described her as a painter who loved to capture the beauty of the world around her. He spoke of her with such familiarity and affection, it was as if he had known her for years. Yet, Clara was a stranger, a figment of his imagination, or so it seemed.

Eli's vocabulary was another mystery. He would often use words and phrases that were far too complex for a child his age. He spoke of "serendipity", "ephemeral beauty", and "the dichotomy of life". His parents were astounded by his linguistic prowess and often wondered where he had learned such words.

Eli's stories were enchanting, filled with mystery and wonder. They painted a picture of a life lived in another time, in another place. His parents, though initially bewildered, came to accept and cherish Eli's unique gift. They realized that their son was special, that he had a connection to a world beyond their understanding.

And so, Eli continued to share his stories, his memories of a life he had never lived. Each story was a window into a world unknown, a glimpse into a past life remembered. And through his stories, Eli taught those around him about the beauty of imagination, the power of memory, and the magic of a life lived in the echoes of the past.

I remember Pacov

there is war

a mortar embed itself

in our house unexploded

earth seeps blood

ground screams in fear

so many have fallen

running for their lives

without success

cows mooing

time for milking

udder full dangling

water from the well

deep and cold

bread baking

warm slices slathered

fresh lard thick chewy

another bomb blast