#Write30 June 2: I See You Everywhere

This is from a few more torn out pages from an old journal. I think it was part dream, part real. I was tying my sneaker on the Lavallette boardwalk one sort of misty morning before taking a walk, and I saw a guy that felt deeply familiar, but I didn’t know him.  I don’t think I actually talked to him.

The part about the kid in the field is dream material, I think. But as I replay it and flesh out the scribbled sentences, it feels like memory. Dream memory I suppose.


I see you everywhere.

I don’t think I know you.

I see you everywhere – arms spread as if indicating – everywhere – really.

Nervously, but not really scared, knowing he’s unfamiliar, she’s tying her shoe.

Well, I do walk here every day. Maybe that’s where you’ve seen me.


It was like an echo, but inside her. His words reverberated in her ears, hear heart. Then she knew what he meant.

I saw you on the field that day. When you walked across and stood out in the middle in the same posture he took up now.

He smiled. Warmly.

I thought it was weird. You were weird.

But it was entertaining.

Yeah? Why?

The field was empty. It was a beautiful day 87 degrees. Sunny. Not too windy, but enough of a breeze to dry the sweat as it formed on my forehead, and to blow that afro of yours around a bit.

He smiled. Even more warmly.

I remember thinking Why isn’t that kid somewhere else?

All of a sudden you stopped in the middle of the field, threw your head back and your arms open, turned in a circle – I don’t know how many times.

That was a beautiful day. Waaaay nicer than today. You were dressed in jeans and a heavy flannel shirt.

She smiled warmly.

A spinning boy in an open field wearing a flannel shirt on a 90 degree day. That’s entertaining.

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