You know, I drive by the police supply store every day and never think of going in. Instead, I think of two people who maybe dated when they were teenagers meeting again, half-a-lifetime later, by chance, between the shelves of nightsticks and holsters, both trying to stay cynical and tough, until one says “The rain. It’s hard on the yearlings,” and brings an invisible cigarette to their lips. Then it’s all tabula rasa . . . also terra incognita, in the sense that the past gains new resonance by subsequent developments. I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here.

In the same way, I like to picture the power lines snapping loose, wrapping themselves around my community college. The guy with tribal tats sleeps gently a few rows ahead of me. We’re learning about imagery. Fire is an image in “To Build a Fire.” No one can think of another image, so we keep repeating the fire, the fire. The other nontraditional student is the only one who cries when the man dies of hypothermia. She also brings her dog to class. She says it’s what’s called a conversation-starter. I need one of them in my life.  A conversation-starter.

The closest I came was that enormous goose, tall as two toddlers. I stood close to it, asserting some degree of familiarity and ownership. Couples walking in the park would stop and ask me questions. “Did it cry when it was born?” “Can it swallow a live rat?” I’d just shrug, “I’m not a goose farmer.” One time, a woman asked “What’s its name?” which was a legitimate question, but it felt like there was a dark forest between us. I said “I don’t know its name; I only know its nickname.”  This was a lost opportunity. I know that now.