Was/Past/Gone called on the earpiece, forcing the recall of over-and-done times, and I clutched up with dread and irritation and curiousity. It had been several years since we last spoke.
Was/Past/Gone has issues, problems, a pronounced denoument these days...guess she wanted to share it with me. Or she was reaching out, grasping outward to connect to someone who can aid her, solve her mysteries, make her do better. I sure as hell wasn't the savior since she had, frankly, become the unforgiven and forgotten.
But I didn't sleep well for two nights thinking of my past days with a vocal ghost. I didn't know how to feel; did I react and involve myself in something that was unsolveable by me? Did I act as a soft shoulder, a listener? Who knows, not me, not with the swirling of the past gliding by me like moths or spiders as I cast shadows against my porch walls for late-night, troubled cigarettes.
The broken engine coughs to life, without a key in the ignition, and pleads for your attention to aid it...from a distant junkyard.
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