Paul Yoon

It was as though someone, somewhere, were dreaming this and he had crossed into it without permission. Everything both familiar and foreign.

This momentary bridge. The wonder of a shared memory, returned. Of a place once theirs and a life that had already been lived.

He thought of these yers as another life within the one he had. As though it were a thing he was able to carry. A small box. A handkerchief. A stone. He did not understand how a life could vanish. How that was even possible. How it could close in an instant before you even reach inside one last time, touch someone's hand one last time. How there would come a day when no one would wonder about the life he had before this one.

It occurred to her, watching him move through the crowd, that time, in some ways, had nothing to do with how you thought of someone. And she did not know how that was possible because time was, she thought, how you defined yourself. It was what made you and what finished you as well.