Every winter, more or less, it happens again — I feel flashes of what it was like living in that skin, living that life where I died at a Florida mall while living out of my car in the parking lot. I understand that I’m thinking about how horrible it would be during this season to be out in the streets, but I have no specific recollection of being in the cold in that life.
In that life I appeared to be born in Little Rock, Arkansas. I remember a trip to New York and maybe a short period in Vietnam, but then it was just Florida — Miami Beach and Palm Beach. Florida, I feel certain, is where I died running in that mall — that recurring dream as a kid.
Why the reaction to the cold, the Ohio snow, in the state I’ve lived in since I was last spat out 36 years ago? Just hating the weather would be one thing, but always the associations with that life, the fear of homelessness and the guilt for having a warm place to sleep at night jab at my insides.
It would be so nice to simply recall it all, to face that life as a whole, to know what unseen memories are influencing me — to get a full name, to be able to search for who I was and confirm or falsify it all. To move forward.
To not be haunted by myself.