Dark now. The roar outside on the highway has subsided and now thunders intermittently. Red ribbons (taillights) whip by the window in either direction and drift into distinct spots rising toward either horizon. Leaving me behind, here. I stand at the window, stand still, watching the glare of headlights get clearer for a moment, then widen until they pass. Trailing ribbons leaving spots. In this spot, anchored to this spot. Until tomorrow, until this night ends.
The plains hold us here, their shadows like ghosts, floating and diving around the motel’s neon sign. Night shadows in a place without day shadows, cast from false light, which throws them out, toward me. Searching shadows - the memories of the forms they mock, dodging and chasing and following. Too transient to touch. And I remember these shadows and that light.
And then sunlight. Long dusk-time shadows. Summer: Skin crawling with itches from rolling in the grass, dew-soaked bare feet, mosquito bites, fireflies. And a voice floating over these flat fields - these same fields - calling a name. And I’m running, out of breath. Through the fields, then backyards, then streets in town. Panting, the voice getting closer, I’m following the voice. I can remember. Bits and pieces, they’re coming back, I’m coming back.
In my eyes, pictures, getting clearer. Snapshots of a life I should know. The past beams up to me from the pages of a stranger’s photo album, like the light from a fire. It’s my voice.
"Gene."
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