Stepping out of the car, my feet crunching on dry gravel, I look south, past the water tower and notice a tall column of cloud. It looms like a skyscraper, but it’s not a thunderhead—it’s fluffy and white, seemingly solid. Unconcerned, I return to the house, visiting a place in my past (or was it my parent’s past?). The smell of the dusty house fills my senses. A long corridor appears on my right. I reach out to grasp the doorknob, but it’s further on than I thought; my thumb moves through empty space. I falter, stepping back (how was this corner structured?) Now I’m in the kitchen, but the cabinets have changed. Through the peek-through in the wall, I imagine the chair in the family room bathed in light, the cat curled up on the armrest.

Bird song wafts through the window from the backyard. The valley sweeps down away from the house, just the same as it ever was. I can see the Ferris wheel going up in the distance – or is it a trick of the light? Closing my eyes, I can sense the pull of the rides, the vertigo, my heart in my throat. The wind picks up and all other sounds immediately die out. Then there’s just my body, the wind, the sky. But really it’s just the wind, and the sky.