A few months ago, while driving home from the weekly Fairway run, we are at a stop light in Carroll Gardens. The radio is playing, my Mother in the passenger seat, the sun is shining. This must have been before the June rains.
She is complaining about something, I don't remember what. Probably politics, it's a favorite subject for her. This day, a low point. The week of grinding work has left me limp with exhaustion. The gnawing stress in the pit of my stomach, the knowledge of her misery wearing away at me all the more.
I closed my eyes, and suddenly, I am vapor. I am white gauze, light shining through, rippling in the sunlight. My vaporous self rises, rises, rises up out of the car and vanishes into the daylight. The vapor separates into mere wisps. I disappear. Where I once was, I am no longer. Just gone.
Every time I get into the car and head over to Fairway, the same image returns. It was there again, today. I've become accustomed to it. The sensation I had that day, with that image, was very complete. Now the sensation is that of a memory, which is a different experience. More like an observer of the event rather than the participant. I miss the participant feeling, wishing it could return. Each time I get in the car, I search for it, but it remains a memory rather than a re-creation.