Memory is Like Water Carried in Cupped Hands

An uncomfortable tingling ran across my shoulders and up the back of my neck; the sensation of insects crawling across my grave.

“Where did he go? People don’t just disappear!” I didn't quite shout.

The girl looked away and said softly, “People disappear all the time. We just don’t notice.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nevermind. What I meant to say is that this is a park. Whoever he was probably just continued hiking or whatever. Plus there are trees everywhere.”

I didn’t like it but she did have a point. “I’m sorry. Like I said I'm a little weirded out right now. My name is—”

I broke off in mid-sentence, perplexed. Who was I? I couldn’t remember. Scrabbling for any memory, I tried to think back but it was like trying to pull reflections out of a pond. I remembered growing up on St. Helen’s Street, outside of Redding. I remembered my mom’s face and the smell of peanut-butter cookies. A dog named Cliffy. An older sister named Alexandria, after the Great Library.

But who was I and what was I doing in a park?