Cemetery Street

When morning came, Shannie and I set off on our mission of rediscovery. Despite being a threatening gray day, the first rays of hope burnt away the shroud of fog encasing me. It would be sometime before my fog would lift, but for the first time since the accident, I felt grounded.

"Take me to the picture," I told Shannie as she drove from the Rehab's parking lot.

"What?" Shannie asked.

"Take me," I paused, frustrated that I could not give more details. "Take me to the place in the picture."

"What picture?" Shannie asked.

"The one on my TV. The one of you. You, you're sitting against that build, building thing."

"The arch? The arch in Valley Forge?"

"Yeah, that's it."

The GTI crawled slowly over the cobblestones surrounding the arch. From the passenger seat I read aloud the quote which haunted me since first seeing it. Slowly, pronouncing each syllable I read aloud George Washington's words: "We can not ad-mire e-nough the brav-er-y and fi-del, del-I-ty of the a-a-mer-I-can s-sol-dier-y."

Shannie watched me.

"I don't know why," I faced Shannie. "But, that means something. It's like if I can figure it out, I'll be able to remember a lot about myself."

Shannie's lip twitched, the answers to all my questions wanted to rush from her. Remembering how headstrong she was, I didn't ask her to tell. I'd save us the aggravation. I looked across the rolling fields, at lines of cannon, and the bare trees climbing the hills beyond. "I wasn't a soldier was I? I mean I don't think I was."

"You weren't. Two people very close to you were."

"Really?" I asked, my voice rising.

"They're both dead." Shannie's eyes held mine.

"Oh." I looked across the field at the cannons.

***

As we crossed the Schuylkill River Bridge into Beyford recognition flooded over me like forgotten scenes of a favorite movie. JD's tavern, Borough Hall, Wally's, the blind black man walking down the street - all beguiled me. But nothing evoked a similar reaction to the glare of headlights from an approaching train. I watched the gates drop as Shannie climbed Main Street. Something about the train held the secret of who I had been.

Shannie turned right and then a left at the next street. Above the intersection a street sign read Cemetery Street. I stared out the window as we passed the Junior High School and then the old piano factory. My mind was alive with images, as if I was watching ghosts walking up and down the street. At the corner of Bainbridge and Cemetery Street, I saw the ghosts of a younger Shannie and myself standing on the corner, their attention captured by the shout of a familiar voice escaping a passing car.