Worn Paths (An Older Fiction Story I Wrote)

         Hidden then not as a way is seen, not a portion but the whole of it, and so I walk confidently toward home. Home is what's familiar (the simple and the complex), where it all comes together and where the worn paths of thoughts most experience with memory are the ones I too experience....only in a more extraordinary way. Let me explain; it’ll make sense. I’ll start at the beginning.

           They called me gifted, extraordinary even. I had the memory of an elephant (and I still do), we didn't know how much however, until I was three years old. Watching, listening, and taking it all in was easy and possible the first time every time. It didn’t matter what it was, I only had to remember to actively pay attention (listening when it was spoken, and listening and focusing on what was taking place around me when it was more than just words). When it was displayed in every use of this "superpower", the word “extraordinary” was often said by all who witnessed this ability applied in everyday life to it's full potential. I always wondered why I had this "superpower" until one day when it was made clear why.

            The years had gone by as this “extraordinary” gift was used over and over and still I didn’t comprehend what the purpose for having it was…then it all became clear. I turned twenty-two and was a male nurse working in the E.R. . A brown-haired man in his thirties (thirty-three to be exact) was being brought in and I was present. Back and forth his oxygen and vital signs rose then fell, then it dropped to four percent and instantly became critical. He clung to every labored breath as his fight for life turned desperate, he was drowning in an airless sea. As we all did our best to raise his oxygen levels, to improve his vital signs, and restore his health to a stable level, every struggle undertaken quickly took it’s toll on his body and he couldn’t endure; with his last moments of life and breath he softly sang a song, then passed away as he raised his arms to the sky.

            It was ten in the evening as the thirty-three year old brown-haired man breathed his last. Soon after a woman the same age came in. She was obviously frantic and upset. Tears and intense terror filled the face of this also brown-haired woman, his wife. She wanted to know his last moments, she wanted closure if he wouldn’t be coming back. No one could tell her, until she came to me. It was tough to share (because of the empathy I felt as I experienced her abundant sorrow), but I shared the worn paths of memory I walked, travelled toward "home", and brought help to one lost on the journey of life. The roads were worn and made clear, making them easy to follow for I remembered them well. I didn't ask for this strange gift, and I'm not some savior; I just walk worn paths I regularly take in my memory to help others who get lost in forgetfulness....and that day I knew why I was made extraordinary. That day (though the paths to familiar memories were painful to walk and recall), they gave the necessary steps toward healing (in this case closure), and for that I’m grateful.

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