The Time of Change

It Feels More Like A Memory

I spring out of my seat, but don't move forward. Standing up was all my legs could muster. The ring remains clenched in my right fist as I stare at this intruder, this figure that is encased in the white light. When the glow evaporates, somehow the person is still a bit silhouetted. They have a slight frame, I think. Very thin but rather tall. As either my eyes start to adjust, or they fade into view, I can see that they have pale white skin and curled dark brown hair. The person's back is to me, so I can see her (because I am almost certain it is a female) hair cascading down to her mid-back in a picturesque fashion. It's beautiful. And in a split second I realize that even though I can't see her face, I think she is beautiful, too.

Something is pulling my hearts toward her. Something is grabbing hold of every molecule in my body and magnetizing them to gravitate her way. Something within me, somebody I used to be, is screaming at me, but I can't tell what he's saying. Something is alighting my bones and setting fire to my brain so that all I can manage is standing here, staring.

Who is she?

The girl sucks in a deep breath and looks around her, her movements a little jerky. Like she's nervous, or shocked. Possibly both. With a tender touch she places her hand on the console, feeling around the buttons as if she is familiar with them. Her fingers are dainty, thin. They tremble slightly. I watch closely as she starts to circle it, and finally I can see her face.

My eyes drink in her blemish-free, heart-shaped, gentle features, and immediately millions and millions of words flood my brain. I don't even see the room in front of me anymore. I see that face, her face, in so many other settings, smiling and laughing and winking and crying. I see her against the backdrop of an old red brick building, young, confused, and a bit afraid. I see her in front of a snow-covered lawn, a tiny house sitting in the background. I see her gazing at me, wide-eyed, as we stand on a pristine shoreline. Crystalline blue waves roll behind her and are almost the natural representation of the fathomless blue in her eyes. I see her through different eyes, in different places, at different times. I see innumerable pictures in my head, like silent films in blinding color. Her hair flows and bounces and her eyes crinkle at the sides and her smile widens and a dimple forms at the corner of her mouth and I start to feel something awaken within me. A feeling that has been dormant for far too long, buried under dust and decay, roars to life in my chest.

She doesn't see me, and inwardly I wonder how I could have ever stopped seeing her.

Her eyes rake over every lever, button, and pulley on the panel. They travel up the cylinder, and that anxious tension is gone. I can see her irises slowly filling with a diluted ecstasy, her mouth tilting up on both sides to reveal the smallest, yet happiest, of smiles. She walks very slowly, deliberately, every movement she makes punctuated by the sound of soft fabric against rough denim. She's not wearing her signature leather jacket; it's been traded in for a flowy white top, tucked in at the waist of her dark jeans. Its sleevelessness shows off the freckles that dot her shoulders in between the expanses of creamy white skin. There's those same spiked black boots, though.

The amount of memories that are returning to me nearly floor me. I'm incapable of movement, yet I'm breathing like I've just run a thousand miles. The hand that holds the ring is wound tight, my fingers pressing so hard into my palm that I'm worried my nails will break the skin. My mouth hangs slightly open.

How could I have forgotten? How could I have forgotten? How could I have forgotten?

At long last, she notices me, and she stops dead in her tracks. Her hand falls back to her side. She stands directly in front of me, now, the circularity of the control panel on her right side. To her left are the doors. I see her swallow and blink, though there are no tears in her eyes. She doesn't look scared, either. Not anymore. She just looks at me, and it takes every ounce of my strength to stay looking back at her without falling to my knees.