Ghosts of Little Things

Opossum sits on the edge of my bed, looking at me with glowing eyes.

“I feel like I’m not good at this,” I say, “this moving forward.”

“You’re lucky,” says Opossum, “these days I just turn up. I don’t even remember what it felt like to move.”

“I’m starting to feel it, you know, this ‘spiritual growth.’ It started as a pain in my abdomen, like a terrible cramp, but now it radiates to my legs sometimes. On good days, I can almost pretend it’s not there, but mostly, I feel sort of restless, like I’m going around in circles.”

“It’s the world,” says Opossum, looking out the dark window, “you’re just feeling it inside.”

“Maybe,” I say.

I pull the covers up to my chest and Opossum pads his way closer.

“I think I might be going crazy,” I say to Opossum. “I’m seeing Rafe everywhere, even as this kid, Juan Rosado. I feel like something’s turning...the closer I get to the Fountain, the more I feel the weight of the Thing That Happened in the Snow. Do you think it’s possible to forget a person, as if they never really existed?”

“People,” says Opossum, “you cling to your memories like barnacles to ships.” He pads closer to me, so that our noses are almost touching.

“Find the Second Point,” says Opossum, “but keep up your guard. Stay alert. Be prepared.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For the unraveling,” says Opossum.