Driving last week I saw a young man in a car one lane over. His hands rested on the wheel. All of a sudden they were Malcolm’s hands. Not like, really his. I know I wasn’t really seeing Malcolm; my mind was playing tricks on me, filling in an image it recalled from my memory. But rational thinking played no part in the experience. As I watch, I suddenly can’t breathe and there’s a lump in my throat. I want to follow the car and keep seeing Malcolm’s hands on the wheel but the car pulls off and turns. I’m stuck in my lane. I begin crying.
Today, driving down my street I saw a red Honda coming towards me, a car like Malcolm’s. And as it passed me I saw him behind the wheel.
As I write this my throat clenches up one more time. I hope I see him again soon; I don’t care that it isn’t real. An embodied memory is better than nothing. This nothing is so permanent.