Excerpt

From "Zygote Notes on the Imminent Birth of a Feature Film As Yet Unformed"

1.

I am dreaming a movie. What it is, I don't know. It will tell me when it's ready. Is already whispering to me now, unfurling itself like a softly windswept curtain.

The curtain is a place called Manitou Springs: a lovely little tourist town and art enclave at the foot of Colorado's grand Pike's Peak.

I am struck at once by the establishing shot through my windshield, eyes functioning as an imaginary camera lens. Capturing the colorful storefronts and sturdy Wild West architecture of its main drag, the scattered two-story homes winding up the green hills, the majestic mountain beyond.

The streets bustle with brisk tourist trade: roving packs of jocks and off-duty soldiers, clean-cut American vacationing families, delighted women on boutique shopping sprees, an impressive array of strolling lovers.

But the locals stand out, roughly 50/50 in the semi-dense sidewalk sweepstakes. They are shaggier, more relaxed and at home on these streets. Saying hi to one other, and walking their dogs. Most of them seem pretty happy to be here.

Beneath the surface, however, there is something deeper churning. I can feel it in my bones. Something special about here. Something exciting and strange, galvanizing every speck of sensation I have.

This town feels frankly full of ghosts, and older spirits from nature's weirdest depths, history repurposing itself for a 21st century America that, like me, knows far more than it understands.

I cruise leisurely through its heart in a cheap rental car, my shrunken stroke-addled dad riding shotgun at my side, curious pastel-blue eyes blindly unseeing, head cocked like a cocker spaniel's, a floating half-smile on his face.

"Oh, Dad," I say, over the car's cranked A/C, pushing the limits of his hearing aid. "Manitou Springs is knocking me out. Do you remember what it looks like?"

"Manitou Springs?" he says thoughtfully, every memory a struggle through fog. And as I proceed to describe it, building by building and mountain by mountain, he seems to go farther away. As if rekindling sight-based memory is transporting him elsewhere.

Not just through time, or space, but some other dimension altogether.

That is the wind that stirs the curtain.

2.

After dinner, I bring Dad back to his managed care home, where the slow death of hundreds of elderly bodies smells like Fabreze on old bones. The air inside is heavy with waiting and forgetfulness, but also with a kindness I can't help but respond to. It's so nice to know that honest human concern is at work here, at the end of the road.

We play a round of Yahtzee, and he kicks my ass. He can't see the dice, but he rolls them just fine. I don't have to cheat to declare him the victor. He is happy. That counts for a lot.

I help him make his way to the bathroom for his nightly prep, stand back for his private moments, spend those ten minutes looking at pictures of myself, my mom and sisters, his other late wife, all surrounding him, unseen yet comforting.

He comes out of the bathroom, strips naked and frail as I hand him his pajamas, help him put them on, lead him back to his favorite chair. The nurse comes in, gives him his meds. I say goodnight.

And drive directly to Manitou Springs.