When the Past Comes Back

I was here. That's what his image screamed out at me from my camera. I was here! Indeed he was. I inhale sharply but control the breath that goes out in an even release.

Let's think about how this is possible. Could this be an old photo he took without me knowing? No, I bought this memory card last week and loaded it just yesterday. The count was at 0 until today. Could it be that I loaded the wrong memory card, an old one that contained these images? No, this is only my second memory card ever, and the first one fell out of the camera and into the water during the trip to Martha's Vineyard. Could it possibly be that I am trying to work out my part in an ellaborate delusion? Only a matter of time before my last few sanity cells, having long been discriminated against, made a run for it.

I always lock the house. I lock it, then check it again, then make sure I have my wallet. There was that phone call this morning though, that came through right as I was walking out the door. And the phone call required me to look for something in my car, and then I hung up and left. Yes, I definitely left without going back to lock the door.

He was here. He was in my bedroom.