I met him in a crowded restaurant. He walked right up to me and asked me if I’d seen the sunset the night before. I said no. He said he wished he could have shared it with me and that his name was Wilson. He kissed my cheek, handed me a slip of paper and seemingly walked out of my life.

I stared at the note all the while eating my grilled McChicken sandwich. On the piece of paper was written:

In your eyes I see a love of life

I can imagine you’ve faced much strife

Into my mind you twirled

You danced into my world

I want a place in your vision

Outside all of this derision

Away from this fast food

Call me if in the mood

641-555-5220

I pondered all the questions surrounding this impromptu poem. Who was this? How does one person have the capacity to disrupt my life so completely? Do I call?

In need of some time for reflection on my own, I drove and drove the back highways of Iowa. Music too loud, singing out of tune, speed too fast, life confused. Freedom: just another word for nothing left to lose.

Do I call? What do I have to lose? Do I not call? Why face regret? As I always say, I do not regret the things I’ve done but those I did not do.

I called from a gas station pay phone close the Nebraska border. The station had been closed for many years however the phone still worked in the rain.

“Hello,” a female voice answered.

“Hi, may I speak to Wilson?” I asked expecting it to be a joke or wrong phone number.

“Sure.”

There was a long pause as I removed the cold dripping hair from my face.

“Hello?” a male voice asked.

“Hi, my name is...”

“Alexandra,” he finished for me.

“How did you...”

“I met you once in a dream called high school.”

“Did I know you then?”

“No, but I knew you.” I was speechless. How was this happening?

He giggled a small sideways laugh and asked, “Can I see you tonight?”

“If I can find my way back to town,” I found myself saying before giving any thought to the question at hand.

“Come again?” he asked.

“I went for a drive and got lost. It’s not unusual behavior for me.”

“Well let’s say if you find your way home you meet me at the corner of north 55 Ave and Iowa Street.”

“There is nothing there but a bridge.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll see what I can do”

“Till then, goodbye Alexandra Conlin,” with that he hung up.

I stood there in the freezing rain staring at the phone for at least five minutes. What cosmic act of fate was causing this? In Colorado I was single and lonely. What kind of fucked up place was this? In Colorado men barely gave me a second glance. In the past three weeks in Iowa I had been overwhelmed with dates.

What the hell is this town? A happy village in limbo: a quaint place somewhere between reality and hell. You can see the flickers of the inferno dance over a nearby hill. A blissful town where bigotry and conformity are held as virtue. Love only exists for possessions and false dogmas.

Ian stood in the corner taking illicit nips of Jack Daniels straight from the flask. He keenly eyed Emma from his niche. She was laughing. It was the kind of laugh that was boisterous enough to be contagious but not too loud to distract from the joke.

Although she was laughing through her alcoholic haze, Ian could see her sad restraint in her body language. He could see the pain behind those large black eyes. How he longed to understand that pain and sooth that scar she carried in the pit of her stomach swallowing it down each day as not to choke on it. Yet tonight was not the night to stroke her scars. Tonight was the night to enjoy the vivacity that she wore as a shield. Again her laugh lit the room and everyone joined her. Ian just smiled.

“So a guy walks into a bar with a duck under one arm. He walks up the bartender and asks for a gin and tonic. The bartender asks what are you doing with that weirdo? The guy says what it’s just a duck. The bartender says yeah I know I was talking to the duck,” Emma said.

Again the room lit up. Ian wondered if anyone else could see illumination that seemed to glow from Emma. She spotted him in the corner and gave him one of those knowing smiles.

The little old man could sleep anywhere. He was always catching naps in subways, buses and grocery lines. Currently, he slept soundly on the coffee shop's sofa: Gaterade on the floor, Bible laid across his chest, slight smile graced this thin, peach lips and Billy Holiday serenading him.

He wasn't exactly suffering from narcolepsy - just boredom. His dreams were much more vivid and vibrant then his daily life. He loved his sleeping moments.

“I forgot to put on underwear this morning,” I muttered.

“You what?” Leah responded.

And this is how it started: my slow descent into depression. Isn’t funny how we can narrow it down into one sentence. I stopped answering the phone. The only time I would bathe would be when I could smell my feet even though they were tucked deep in my covers in the midnight hours. I neither left my apartment nor had the desire to.

I would cook my favorite dinner then refuse to eat it, no longer hungry for curry or garlic shrimp or naked pasta. I would spend days organizing my CD collection or alphabetizing my canned goods.

You are scared, therefore, you are beautiful and I love you.

Life has dashed you against the rocks and broken you open. You have discovered a scar at the center of your being. You've swallowed it down each day to keep from choking on it. As you examine your scar, know that it will always be a part of you. Somedays you will feel no pain, other days it will define your every action. But you must remember a scar reveals healing and you are healing.