I’m Here & There

Standing in my childhood bedroom, I take crime scene photos.

Drawings taped to the walls, dogeared books on the shelves, the view from the windows; all evidence of that sudden Claritin-Cleared-strangeness of being a guest in your old room. I want proof of refreshed eyes making old things new. My cellphone data isn’t working at home, so if I want to send a text I have to walk outside, cross the street, and stand on the curb of the college campus to get a signal. A WiFisland. Then, if I want to check to see if someone has responded, I have to do it all again. Pacing with a purpose. It feels like a bad plot device in a horror film, a random technical glitch to make sure things keep happening.

And, as usual, they do.

In the morning I go for a run through the childhood haunts. The place doesn’t feel smaller just closer together, more compact. The night before I had flown across an ocean and this gives me an edge: everyone else is still sleeping. My noon is your six, buddy. I slept in on a technicality but nobody has to know.

My shoes are dew-drenched as I slide by the major landmarks: bike crashes, first kisses, soccer matches, down into the field that, once, flooded, we canoed all the way across without ever having to get out to walk. These memories layer, transparencies on an overhead projector, the…