recorded
you find yourself in a town you almost know. you are looking for a child. you cannot picture the face; you can picture the small jacket. you are calling a name and the name is not coming out, or it is coming out as someone else's.
the streets fold gently into other streets. a shopkeeper says she has just seen the child, that the child was here a moment ago, and she gestures in a direction that becomes another direction as you look. you are not afraid in the way waking is afraid; you are afraid the way a hand is afraid when it cannot find a doorhandle in the dark. the child is yours. the child is also not yours; you have never had a child; you have always had this one.
you see, between two houses, the smallest movement. you do not run. running is for dreams in which you arrive. you walk toward the gap, and the gap stays at the same distance, and behind you, very quietly, someone is calling your name. you do not turn. the child is just ahead.
recorded on waking · undated