The inside of the car filled with the heavy synth of dark wave darling “Boy Harsher” as it sped down I-5. The little mini cooper bounced along the road like an automotive bouncy ball, and the young man inside thought of gritty sci-fi and other cinematic masterpieces. The boy smelled like allspice and spearmint. His hands that gripped the wheel were stained yellow from turmeric. He bobbed his head to the throb of the music.

He wanted to know if the universe was serendipitous or if he was just blessed with more kismet than the average schmuck. Every time he thought of a far flung person from his past— they appeared within a week. Not in a grand, flashy way. No neon signs or carnival hollers. Often they would quietly pass him. Not recognizing him from their own past. He’d wonder if his memory of people was normal. If others could recall the fervor of an argumentative week from seven years prior. Did anyone else trace the lines of destiny others walked upon?

His mind whirled as he took his freeway exit. At the end of it— a vagrant dismantling their tent took a step backwards onto the street. The young man misses him by inches. The other man doesn’t even notice the light caress of death linger on his neck. The young man keeps driving— slower now. He turns off the music and lets silence fill the air. He thinks about the millionaire who just won the lottery. And the man that absently stepped backwards onto a freeway exit. He thinks about the ruts in the road and how the car needs to skirt around them. The buildings surround him— concrete trees with bright lights in what used to be dark woods.

The mews of a needy cat greet him once he returns home. It winds itself through his legs and rubs its paws against him to signal that it wants to be picked up. He obliges. Walking around the apartment with a cat in his arms— reflects on the frivolous quest for singular meaning. The cat purrs. He doesn’t want to fall into the trap of romanticism. And he fears the hungry hearts of the righteous. “You could be wrong about everything,” He reminds himself as he gently rocks the cat. The area around him is sparse and luxurious. There’s a certain coldness to it— one that has to be dispelled by the comfort of the many seats to lounge upon. He picks the old, tan, suede chair in the corner. It reminds him of another chair— a ratty, swivel lounge chair that lived in a mountain cabin. One that filled with the scent of wood smoke and bracing cold. The young man feels far removed from that nature. He feels far removed from the boy that tiptoed across river rocks to hunt through foliage on a small island for four leaf clovers.

The young man forgets that he doesn’t share these memories with many people. That he hasn’t explained that much of his childhood freedom was spent tramping through the forest. Along small creeks and mossy beds— surrounded by old growth trees and the remnants of a wilder past. Of how he filled up canteens with rare bottles of Coke that he’d plunder from his aunt and uncle’s cooler. How he would sleep on the floor with the dogs instead of the many beds or couches. He forgets the slam of the heavy iron door or the light creak of the wooden one. How the ceiling planks were installed incorrectly so that the smooth side was faced up instead of down. And how the rough side caught all the dust and cobwebs. Of how his mother would tell him that if his grandmother had been around while it was constructed, that would have never happened.

He forgets many things. His fear of the dark. Of closets. Of goblins and ghouls.

He does not forget the nights spent around the fire with his uncle. The stories he’d hear with his back to the shadows of the night. He remembers the heat from the dark embers and how he wondered what he’d be like when he was older. He does not forget the beauty of the tales his uncle wove together— their lines draped in the air like celestial strings— begging to be played.

The young man stares out at the street below. At the flashing red and blue lights of the police being called to another incident. He stares at the microcosms of life across the street in the hotel windows— how vignettes play out before his eyes. A young family on holiday, an older couple reigniting the romantic spark. All happening at the same time. All happening in the same world.