Memoirs of a Past Life

Several miles outside of Juneau, Alaska.

1981

I left the house to get some air on the screened in porch. The season had just changed; the cool spring air had begun to give in to summer, but the year was still too early for the night insects that came up from the lake. The wind kept the chill in the air, but it made for a clear night. The stars spilled onto the lavender sky, while pine shadows loomed on the horizon. The screen door creaked behind me, and someone stepped onto the porch. I didn’t turn around, but I could tell by Elle’s silence that it was her.
“So you leave tomorrow?” I asked quietly.
“The train is coming at 7. I’ll arrive in Portland by tomorrow night,” she answered.
“And will Samuel pick you up at the station?”
“Yes, I’ll stay at his house until I board the train to Los Angeles on Monday.”
“Well, everything seems to be in order then.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No.”
I half expected to hear her reenter the house, but I knew she wouldn’t. The only sound I heard was the silence of her stare at my coldly turned back. I wanted to turn around to meet her gaze, but like always, I could not. I could not look at her. I could not. If I could have just turned to see her dark hair blow carelessly across her face, her eyes searching for me to show I cared, I know we could have spend the last night we had together.
We stayed silent on the porch for several minutes. Finally, I heard the screen door moan and clatter shut. I was alone again, and she would leave in the morning.