Rabbit Hole

clem-onojeghuo-204181
“Man in Cafe by Neon Lights” by Clem Onojeghuo, Unsplash

Where does this dream end, and where do I begin?

I practice string theory while walking briskly through the middle of what is now a very nice, modern fusion Mexican restaurant. The knives and forks, chocolate lava cake that glowed, the strange imitation of tacos resonated with my middle-aged childhood, the four years I walked these hallways from English Honors to Algebra.

My short life in layers, the past and the present superimposed, save for this young girl’s voice telling me I am her hero. I should know her as she knows of me, yet dementia takes holds.

I should’ve interviewed my grandparents, beyond their aches and pains. They probably saw what was unspoken, in the gist of their laundry list of physical ailments, doctor’s appointments, talk of Medicare and the current President. Maybe they were too far gone to notice.

Maybe, I am not a ghost or a time traveler, but a cog in a machine. A very big machine.

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