12. The Place
Where Memories Go

Millicent grabbed my hand and pulled.

"Thanks," I sighed when my eyes had grown used to the hushed whispers of twilight that rested upon the barren landscape of silhouetted trees, and I gazed upon her pale memory as it wavered in and out of consciousness.

"Don't mention it, please!" the vision begged, and she directed my attention to the matter at hand. "What have you brought me here for?" she whispered, protecting me in her cloak as she searched the horizons for those who did not belong.

"It's the only place we can talk in safety," I sighed, trying desperately to keep my words inside the boundaries of expectation.

"Well, what is it then?" she burst in flames of passion, enveloping me in burnt, blackened offerings of desire.

The passion was invigorating, but I grabbed for the clouds and flooded the fire with reason, or at least with resignation. "Not now," I winked, assuring her that her intentions would have been greatly welcomed if I were not so desperately in need of another facet of her abilities.

Millicent pulled the cloak of propriety about her transparency and waited in hushed expectancy.

"Well..." sighed the night when words refused to fill my brain, and the place I'd imagined was starting to fade.

I slapped myself, trying to redirect my consciousness, to focus my perception, as if my very existence depended upon my ability to transcend the realm of the expected, and materialize once again in Memory.

"Maya," I sighed, as slowly the tree lined twilight was clearer once again, and I remembered whom it was I had really been searching for. The visage I had conjured didn't complain that I hadn't remembered her properly the first time. She waited in the shadows, a vision of silence awaiting my question, existing only to clear my confusion with whispers of composure.

But she was fading and I was fading and I could not hold on to my dreams as they tore and ripped and burned, and I was falling back into a bitter, sharp stinging reality that was not familiar at all, but with each breath of its certainty that I choked upon, it became reality, as if it were my own.

©: 1992-2015 Robert Alan Silverstein

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