There were things I’d known since childhood, things I cannot explain. At twelve, I envisioned a home positioned so that I could see a church steeple in the distance, church bells echoing between my walls throughout the day. Now I sit in my living room, church bells striking at the sixth hour, the steeple climbing its way up from the roofline across the street.
At fifteen, I saw a life in which I was alone—not solitarily so, there were indications someone else was there, but we seemed to be two ships passing in the night. I ruminated on the vision in which I woke up to birds chirping, the bed empty. I’d go downstairs to see someone had put on the coffee. I’d spend the entire day by myself, with these little indications of someone else’s presence. I would gaze out the windows or wander the property, but I was unable to leave. I had a sunfish, a remnant of childhood passions, and I would drag it down to the lake. I’d spend the day turtled, lying atop the hull, floating to nowhere. There was an overwhelming quietness to it all, a lack of autonomy. A strange parallel to the life I was, until recently, leading.