Flash

He was in the air, but he was not flying. In one brief minute, his body was up, taking its time to understand what was happening to it as there became a change from the seat he knew too well to the landscape that he thought he knew and yet seemed very strange to him from this particular point of view. A strange thought, just in this moment. Was he thinking too much? His instincts moved very quickly in what was really a short space of time. He was definitely not flying. Instead, he had his dreams and thoughts. Heavy memories were weighing him down more than the gravity claiming him for itself.

They say that a life passes like a rush just before the moment of death. It was not what he was feeling. Feeling? Was this death? No, he was not feeling it. He was dreaming it, all in his head as he moved closer to the road with time to consider what happened and what he had done right and then so very wrong. Maybe not much time, but he could review things.

So, the moments from his life: childhood, teenhood, this whateverhood he was living now. He had to call it something and that was what he felt was best for it. He was an adult; age and many unpaid bills proved all of this. But there was so much else that was missing that made many others think that he was only halfway there. Halfway… That was where he was now. Better be quick with this.

His life was a lonely one, and there were few others to speak to about being lonely. Strange that there was not some way for all the lonely people out there to be lonely together (killing one large bird; one large stone). That was something he should have thought about. He had money in the bank; not much of a social life (good of him to be so responsible, even late in life). That he was good about; he knew what to do with it. That was why he decided to take the bike today instead of the bus or metro, leaving his pass in a side pocket with his keys, chewing gum, wallet and his identification. He could feel them all past the pain on his left-hand side. So, he had that.

That would matter; who he was would soon be an issue for whomever would handle the next step. There was a list in his head of all the materials that would be mentioned, studied, listed, stored and then, of course forgotten. Names, dates, make and model of car and bike, wardrobes, blood tests… The driver was irresponsible (an obvious drunk; he drove off into another vehicle); the young couple on the corner who were now eye to eye with his angle froze and pointed (would they be hit?); the people distracted from waiting for a bus by this moment were quiet (he understood the irony; he could have smiled with more time). They all had a fuller picture than the one he was carrying in his head. The other traffic would not have a chance… The driver had made it to the intersection, chasing another impact. Yes, he had what he needed for all the others. Not much was really left for him.

It was almost near the end of the movie that was playing out in front of him. And he knew that time was a joke (somehow, he saw his watch on his wrist fly off and hit a drain). He could see people on another corner watching him; a woman with raw fear on her face had her dog with her (a chihuahua, if he had to guess it); at least four other people and maybe their kids with them (some were in uniform; was there a school nearby?). And he still wondered what was going to happen next. The road would hurt his face, but his palms were up, as if he were about to heal a congregation of true believers. Was he a believer? He really could not say as the asphalt met his face and the darkness grew in his head.

No, he could not answer that one now.

*

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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