Where is here?

There IS a somewhere else, I know it, and while, like most children, I can’t tell you anything about it, I distinctly remember arriving in this reality, and discovering I was me. I was four years old, a sturdy, busy sort of little person, sitting, legs dangling over the back of a farm trailer, being hauled slowly along by a tractor; and tucked in close by my side was Pat, the collie dog, damp and warm and trying to lick my face and chew my hair! Such detail all about me, I really don’t remember seeing it before, that’s how I know there had been a change. We were travelling at a snail’s pace up a long, narrow lane towards a neighbour’s farm, which gave me plenty of time to look about.
Four in the afternoon of a summer’s evening after rain; the long grasses between the tire tracks were every shade of green and golden brown, twisted and tickly and heavy with fat seeds that dragged past my feet. I tried to snag one or two as they flopped away, but only succeeded in getting my shoes full of cold water. The planks of the trailer bed were scored with natural wood patterns and the damage caused by the dinting and scraping of constant use. I was sitting on a dry sack that smelled strongly of potatoes, and maybe rotten turnips, but then I was more interested in the open hessian weave and coarse texture, as I tried to poke my fingers through a small hole.
Near the top of the lane I looked across the slight valley to fields in the distance: some were already bare, stripped of their crops, others waited their turn, delayed, no doubt, by the rain. A grey, wet mist swirled about us, cool and falling into tatters, for sometimes it thickened and closed off the view completely, leaving myself and the dog to imagine that there never had been anything about us.
Maybe there is always a mist swirling, a time curtain between the acts of a very long play.


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