There was a meeting about Jasper. You were there.
I jumped back in time, back to when I walked by your side.
Now nothing here makes sense.
Who made the blue and pink paper starfish on the table?
Whose black dog is this?
Who am I?
The seeds of me were there when we were together. I am not different now than I was then. And the seeds of you were there and you are not different now than you were then.
But we have lived these incredible lives between that time and this time. We have had other lovers, other friendships. We have lost our fathers. And a dog. Our child is nearly twelve.
All of time must exist at once.
Who made the painting of the chicken’s feet on the table?
I don’t understand.
And I do.
We just went to a meeting, our own psyches on display in our son’s - your propensity for compartmentalization and my inability to fail well, to not know.
Our First Born worker was there. What are the chances? Remember how she visited when Jasper was an infant? Now we watch as Jasper pulls a tractor tire by rope across the school parking lot. He has purple hair. You are both distracted and engaged. I am catapulted back in time. All of time overlapping. We do not age. And we do.
A little girl made that blue and pink paper starfish. Her name is Alea. She is eight, the daughter of someone I love who is in the Grand Canyon, who painted the chicken’s feet. Remember?
Remember that time you came by with Jasper when he was two and I wasn’t here and you wrote a note on the giant sketch pad filled with his artwork?
"8:30 AM. We tried stopping by. You can come for Jasper when you return. Love, Us."
What time is it now? I didn’t hear you knocking.
The blue and pink paper starfish sits atop a paper. The title of the paper, written by our son is, “Why Are We Here?”
I track the wilderness inside. I am leaves and seed pods littered across your cleanly swept tiles. I am muddy paw prints on your carpet, traces of fur on your favorite shirt. Outside, my temerity will make a run at you. Better run fast.
I use creative non-fiction, autobiographical fiction, and poetry to communicate, connect, and understand.