By David Henson

One day the sun is so hot it evaporates our memories. They churn and mix in the clouds as we wander wondering what, who and when. After a few days, the memories rain to earth in random fragments. They flood city streets, gushing into storm sewers and out to rivers and seas to be devoured by fish. They soak the ground of fields, gardens and orchards, rising up stems, stalks and trunks. 

When we eat, every bite releases a memory.

A man plucks a beefeater from his tomato plant. There’s a burst of flavor, and a woman is running barefoot through a meadow. The memory is so vivid, he feels the dew and warm sunlight. But whose recollection is it?  

A woman crunches into an apple. “I don’t think this is mine,” she says to a familiar-looking man. “A little boy pedaling a red tricycle and shouting vrroom. Is it yours?”

Another woman fights back tears after a taste of trout recalls an old man whispering to his failing black Lab. 

Eventually everyone has a morsel of everyone’s memories. Empathy glimmers among strangers. We laugh with borrowed joy, weep with shared sorrow. The lines between self and other blur like a watercolor where ocean meets sky. 

We admire the beauty and lose the memory of edges. 

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David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Bright Flash Literary Review, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, Gastropoda and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.