― W.G. Sebald
Ever since my unfortunate accident and subsequent memory loss, I’ve been dreaming of a mysterious girl who always eludes me.
Who she is I have no idea although, if pressed, I could paint her face and capture her essence. She’s lovely as a melody borne on the wind or a snowflake in autumn, shimmering and hovering with startling clarity in the crisp fall air.
Obviously, I’m haunted, but willingly succumb to the experience of being possessed. It’s a comforting feeling sensing her warmth and presence, Truth is, I’ve been isolated ever since my breakup with Mara Cervantes and the loss of our circle of friends. They had to choose sides and chose her, Can’t say I blame them.
I’m sitting in my kitchen sipping coffee and staring out the window at the willows enveloped in a haze of green buds.
Spring is overrated I think since in its early stages it’s mostly bare tree limbs and the occasional tulip or crocus pushing up out of the half-frozen earth. It’s late April and I’m still wearing winter clothes and thinking of the sail boat Arthur mentioned that’s in dry dock at the marina. It won’t be an option until late May so for now I’m betwixt and between too, in a dry dock not of my choosing.
There’s a definite note of self pity in my morning musing so I resolve to remedy it by getting out and exploring the city today.
An hour later I’m driving aimlessly through downtown streets in search of Significance. Yes, it sounds poetic, but for a man with no autobiographical memory it’s a desperate move, a Hail Mary attempt to cast out a line and see what catches my attention.
Strangely enough I’m drawn to a non-descript part of town and end up parked outside a 19th century house like my own.
I stare up at the stately mansion and almost immediately there’s a familiar feeling akin to nostalgia and the house appears illuminated.
Scenes flash through my mind, a picnic on the back lawn―everyone dressed in the style of the 1920’s. There’s a summer house nearby, or a servant’s quarters―I’m not sure, but there’s also a black iron sundial–yes, definitely a sun dial.
It seems insane but I’m out of the car and walking up the curving walk, not to the the portico flanked front door but to the side garden and around to the back of the house.
I’m aware I’m trespassing on private property but a strong compulsion drives me onward to confirm the pictures inside my head.
The moment I enter the back gardens, my heart stops and I begin tingling all over my body.
The same summer house and sun dial are there along with paths and certain portions of stone wall that flare like lightning inside me.
I’ve been here, I keep repeating inside my head, astonished and entranced at the same time.
The feeling is so intense I can barely stand it―I feel like leaping outside my body. Yes, there’s no denying I’ve been here, but it’s terrifying to realize it occurred a century before in a different world in time.