you ask me how I made it through and how my mint condition could belong to you
One useless new/old memory John can't shake: small, hating the squeaky tiles in the grocery store as his mom, a woman with a soft voice but a firm grip on his wrist, leads him towards the exit. Near the door is a wide yellow bowl, plastic, funnel-like. She lets him drop a dime near the edge. The tiny coin spirals inward faster and faster until it all the sounds stop, and it's gone. He bites his lip so hard it surprises him. It's for the children's miracle network, she tells him, and he can barely hear her. Want to put another in? He can't hear her at all.
Even now, he hardly can. He doesn't want to remember. You don't need to see the future to feel gravity.
Even now, he hardly can. He doesn't want to remember. You don't need to see the future to feel gravity.