Phantom Cascade

Once, in a forgotten summer, the sky turned green above the fishing docks. Grandpa said it was a sign, but the sign never spoke. Did we fish or watch colors dance? Perhaps both.

The attic was a prison of light and cobwebs. She found a doll there, seated in darkness, dressed like a sailor amidst pages of old mariner songs. Did they sing together across time?

A single newspaper clipping remains: "Meteor Over Midsummer Fair." No date on it, but the headline haunts me. Somewhere, I'm sure, I held a meteor in my palm, warm and alive.

At the corner café, a jazz tune unfurled like a forgotten lullaby. Every note rang familiar, as if the brick walls held conversations with ghosts eager to reminisce loud enough for the living to hear.

A child once drew a tall man with stars embroidered on his coat. The drawing went missing; perhaps it was folded into a dream or handed to a stranger on a train bound for another city.