It wells up unexpectedly sometimes. It's that feeling in the pit of my stomach that I always have associated with falling: a deep fear, one of the earliest ones that it's possible to have.
Today my mind did something on me, and I doubted that I'd ever lived anywhere else. I have to be remembering that little wood-colored varnished table, all bright and yellow and with the crack down the center. We piled the couch cushions on it, because it was the exact right size. We sat at it in the blue chair and the wooden chair and in the little chair that eventually became Fricasse's crate.
Have I ever lived in Alaska? Surely I did. Surely my memories of frosty windowpane, of aurora, of birch trees in the fall, are not all false. Surely Gari-San remembers me having been there, wandering the lonely halls of the dorm late at night. Neighbor remembers stories of me there, and we know the same people and were in the same places, but he never saw me.
There are photographs of me as I remember myself, but I've been wearing a stranger's body for the past while. I'm finally coming out...
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