Under shifting sand, the footprints gained clarity, focus came to the faded steps vainly mocked and erased by dunes arising and falling with the wind. Steps leading into the distance always following me, nothing is the same as it was before, lack of memory erased my bearings, I am lost.

Give me an emotion, something to go on, press forward with a passion... But there will be nothing. Nothing but anger and depression following me like a predator, pacing until the final step in dehydration, exhaustion overcomes and I am bound to the path laid before me, trailing into the distance like the yellow brick road, shifting and moving to my fancy, a colorful fantasy and I am the prince. Charming snakes under tents, dancing to the top and spiraling back down in a constant motion, dodging the potion with a dueling stare, never backing down. I glare into the mirage, UV burning on exposed skin, melanoma called me once. I didn’t answer, pondering something better, the sweet simplicity of something I remember... it was so long ago though, a memory forgotten; I could dredge it up if you wanted, told against a stone fire during winter.

I don’t remember the details firsthand, but after momma telling me the story so many times, it seems though I remember seeing it all in person. Of course, I was there but a baby’s memories are more inclined to take in the colors, smells and all the sensual things of the first months of life, not the cruel bitterness we all have to witness. My father was a window washer, and he had several jobs in downtown cleaning the large office buildings, each of which would take him a few days, and he would string himself up and scale the heights on the thin threads of rope so trustingly hung from the top of the precipice. There were many times I sat far below with my mother as she imagined what would it be like if that rope slipped, the horrible thoughts eventually stopping her from lingering around after delivering his lunch, instead giving him a quick peck on the cheek before turning briskly away. They loved each other dearly, but in a devout and proper way, and their intimacy was limited to simple gestures and insinuations, nothing too lavish or fancy.

My mother was always a good Christian, even after my papa died, bless his soul. We didn’t have the luxuries of a common existence, deprived of many of the necessities of life, we needed to either make them ourselves or conjure the valuable goods from some common fiber or mineral, generally as hard as it sounds. It seems like so long ago, mired in mystery behind the technology, if it weren’t for stories I would swear history forgot my generation. We were a handcuffed nation, pacified to a common objective, a foreign directive under an oath we didn’t take. Mired in debt we had no desire to fulfill, but there is no escape from pure existence. She had an insistence to survive in the face of peril but she died when I was twelve, the only thing I held from her memory is this necklace, something meaningless to remember her by. The most precious thing held embalmed in a mere object, a trinket of intense value. About two inches across, delicately engraved with a single, simple character resembling the Greek pi symbol. She said it means ‘Prosperity’ in Japanese, but I can’t seem to find it in any reference book of Asian characters.