You stare blankly ahead at a mess of leaves and limbs. Your eyes eventually gaze out, and what you see becomes a smeared palate of moving colors and shifting shadows. Your eyes are out of focus, and you become aware of the breath sneaking in and sneaking out of your body. You feel your chest rise and fall with the rhythm of the diaphragm. And none of this makes sense. You observe your thoughts, and then a ghost appears. The apparition is a memory of your mother’s house. It’s 2008, maybe 2009, and it’s springtime, and there you are, seated on the porch next to Sister. A soft breeze floats across your face, and there’s anger inside of you. Denial manifests itself as anger, and you’re still grieving the loss of Sister. The woman sitting next to you isn’t her. This damaged soul’s descent into a drug-induced hell was well underway, and she had changed, seemingly from within. Arrests, jail time, plea bargains and a stint in drug court, and eventually prison. In a prison in Plainfield she would write you a letter. She had found god. She realized where she had erred. And once she was out of that place, she would make things right, rededicate herself to motherhood and focus on raising her son. But god never sticks, and the taste for illicit chemicals always returns. And then dad died. Stepdad would pass nine months later (I hope it was painful for him). And thirty days later, mom, crippled by losing the other half of her co-dependency, would die. And three months later, dearest sister would be found, dying, by police officers conducting a welfare check. She died in an emergency room after CPR became a meaningless exercise. And the apparition disperses. And you are sitting here, now, gazing into shades of green shifting, as your chest moves in tandem with your diaphragm. And you realize the peculiar nature of memory and appreciate its power and magic. “Dinner’s ready,” your wife says, her voice breaking your gaze.
And you are here.