I am back there, before it happened, and after, and here now. I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes, like somebody on a stretcher on a battlefield. My stomach hurts and I feel how unreal I am, how imaginary. Some people seem to think they can see me, and they want things, all kinds of things.

But he and I.

We were somewhere together in a past life, and we were not safe. Was it a train? An accident?
Hearing from him makes it impossible to see or hear or speak. I hear that my words are out of sequence. Have I had a stroke?
“I’m sorry,” I say.

I close my eyes and vivid aqua marine blue light pours around my field of vision. I emerge from the light in a kaftan colored with the aqua blue light dancing around alone, and I am told that this is all that I have to do now, all that will happen. Nothing else will happen. But I push my eyes open because I thought I was crossing over. Everything went away except that dancing blue figure and the voice said I don’t have to do anything, anything.

2 thoughts on “Trauma”

    1. I don’t know anything about Mr. Crichton’s death. I am so sorry for the slow reply. I’ve been out of the country for five weeks.

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