“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
Mile marker 69 and the portals open, sensing the proximity of the past.
One by one the memories come, like waves, leaving bits and pieces of story behind, like broken shells.
“No wonder everyone drinks here,” I say, at mile marker 63, feeling the undertow of my youth.
Who decides which memory comes?
Is there some alchemy of sky and scent and age?
If I took your hand in mine, would we jump?
Could we survive?