Regarding memories. Fern fronds waving in the breeze like waves under gales. Trees and ground littered with leaves, whole deciduous branches waving redly. The crescent moon waxing overhead as you break into small packages of brittle, the shards of which melting on your tongue remind you of home. The flowers on the forest floor waving too, a reminder that it's just the wind, that it means nothing, even after your days of no sleep.

Remember eyes. Yours. His. The hurricane's. The iris closes, and the train is littered with people. Nobody looks at you. Ice cubes settle in your glass with that quiet clink.

The cleared land is littered with haybales, reminders of marshmallows. The train judders under you. The forest is littered with needles, pine cones and the eyes of mammals low to the ground,

too dark to tell what kind, reminders of something but you can't think what. The flowers of the conifers are their cones, reminders of geometry. You try a geodesic doodle on the train schedule, run out of ink.

Remember ease. Small-town baseball diamonds dotted with dandelions. That old beater falling into a red metal slumber in the driveway. Weeds pushing through the gravel, and your parents waving from very far away, like the ferns, like flowers, you think, as you finally settle into sleep.