Now a specimen nailed on the walls in a nature museum recalls a deserted memory
It happens that we might live a life which isn’t ours. Desire rises: it’s mercury, it’s honey. It doesn’t matter. We spend whole lifetimes getting unlost and unlost and unlost.
The train weighs lightly on the locomotive and moves like a hurried whisper. The landscape, to my surprise, looks a lot like the American Midwest: parched grass, unfettered trees and thread-sized electric cables tied to giant poles. The grazing cows might have looked healthier, but I couldn’t tell.
The day we arrive, the map says duck pond, but our host crosses out the words impatiently: not a duck pond— it’s a lake! It floods sometimes, enough to wash a car away. A man drowned there a few years back. Jeremy demands proof: How can there be a funeral with no body? We walk through town. The duck pond by the road is flat and calm. Two weeks later, young Karam, brought by his father to help welcome us, retells the story.