The Sighting by Yong Takahashi
I see you again – walking towards me – with your confident stride. I notice your closely-shaven beard, white, button-down shirt, and neatly-pressed slacks. You always took so much pride in your appearance.
I wipe my palms on the dress you bought for me. The blue silk soaks up the moisture and I curse myself for ruining the dress you never saw me wear.
I leap from my seat as I try to close the space between us. The other workers glide past me, slowly, in fragmented snapshots, like charred pieces of glass falling from the sky. It reminds me of the day you vanished from my life.
My vision is fuzzy and I try to make out their faces.
My brain stalls, trying to process this impossible information. Do you finally remember where you belong?
Flashes of our wedding, life, and love flicker in my mind. We were so happy, weren’t we? The flood of memories is unbearable and my legs buckle from underneath me.
The sun scorches my eyes. I blink, praying you do not disappear again.
A face materializes.
I rub my eyes.
I smile but it is not you – again.