I’ve been traveling in my head. One town after another along the coast of France. Diving kelp forests near San Diego. Into the forests of Congo, and then to a hospital where rape victims are being treated, where a mob forms.
But I’m not sure I’m that much of a hero.
Not a tourist either.
Some days, I’m simply absent. When I should be tending my relations. I stop and think, I meant to call ___ months ago. What happened?
When I pick up the phone, rapt in the warmth of her voice, I’m also not there—I’m in Scotland twenty-five years ago, cradled by a feather bed. She’s in the next room.
I select a memory:
biking there and back,
grumpy at what I might miss.