December 15, 2019.

I come across a carcass in the misty Alabama woods.

It’s made of metal, not flesh, but to me it hardly makes a difference.

Up the ridge and there it is, beside the trail, evidence of a spilled human dream, sprawled out vulnerably in misshapen metal pieces of blues and whites on a bed of soft browned leaves.

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Lately is seems, memory has a way of eluding me, sweeping in like chiffon fabric on polished floor tiles and then sweeping right back out on the wind, leaving me only the chance to brush my fingertips across the fabric. This dance happens again and again, memories filing into and out of conscious thought, orbiting some central mass inside my brain. That’s why, when it comes to memory, I think of it less of a filing cabinet full of images and words and more of a solar system with floating clusters of memories like planets; snippets of images; flashes of light amidst the dark caverns of my brain. These clusters, these planets, each containing memories from a nebulous period of time in my life.

Ocean eyes are watching me through blue crystal frames. I watch the crisp, cool waves pull taught on the sand. You, a friend, hold the crab pinched between thumb and forefinger and wonder if it’s alive. As we silently imagine its feet dancing again on the sand, a wave surprises us, soaking your tennis shoes. The saltwater has healing properties but today we found it can’t save a life.

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The shell fills with seawater and sinks to the dusty sea floor.