by Dan Yokum
He’s eighteen now, graduated, and ready to leave the bay. Ready to leave his father who fishes for scraps in the dirty water, and his mother who sells bread on the docks. He’s struggled enough, the misfit, the weirdo. As everyone and everything around him falls apart, he’s still always the kid on the bottom.
Adventure calls, he says, but it’s more about a search for relief and belonging. How often has he stared up at the night sky and asked who he is and why he’s there?
His ancient vehicle passes inspection; he fills it with gas, clothes, and his guitar, and blasts north on the interstate.
He drives through the states, one after another, not caring where he’ll land that night.
He’ll camp somewhere, anywhere. But he’s past check in time to any of the campsites, and the east coast interstate rest areas chase out overnights. Late and desperate, he buys a bad room, and the thin walls serenade him with all-night moans and sighs that highlight his own inexperience.
Next day he leaves the interstate and winds through less traveled roads in the northern states. He doesn’t follow a map or use his phone and wonders why he’s not lost.
Clouds part and the late afternoon sun overpowers the vehicle’s breaking air conditioner. He’ll stop somewhere, find a cool stream and large trees to rest under. He turns onto a seasonal dirt road leading into a thick forest and bounces and weaves through potholes and ruts.
Eventually, the road straightens; lines of people walk slow and silent along its shoulders.
A sign with an arrow says, “parking lot,” and he turns in, slips into a space, and hops out. The lot holds fifty or so cars and RV’s, and three older busses. In a larger field next to the lot are two festival size tents; one is filled with food venders and hungry customers, the other covers a stage and a crush of some sort of shouting, cheering fans. A young woman holding an open book stands on the stage and speaks like a preacher into a microphone.
He runs to the tent and pushes forward, weaving in and out of the mass, until he stands just feet from the stage. The open book bobs and swirls, an extension of her fluid gestures, yet she hardly looks at it. He can’t determine if it’s a bible and thinks it’s not.
She uses specific words, all seemingly related: love, faith, acceptance, forgiveness. From the events of his childhood, his parents’ world, the words are familiar. Yet not entirely. Other words with new and different meanings—interconnection, unity, universal oneness—float visibly in the air.
Someone yells, “We love you, Jade.”
Jade. He focusses on her: thick wavy hair, bright dancing eyes, green floral dress, a smile that beams courtship in its purist form. In one smooth motion, she lifts a guitar, slides the strap over her shoulder, and begins a song she’s titled, Welcome Home. Their eyes meet, hers dig deep, and a golden voice sings just for him.
Jade closes her eyes, immersed, and her body disappears, leaving only a shimmer of glorious vibrating colors. He backs away and runs through the fans. He stops and scans; other light beings ripple and flow throughout the crowd. But not everyone; it’s selective and the embodied ones don’t seem to notice. He examines his own body—legs, arms, hands, feet— thankfully all still there.
He’s desperate to leave, go somewhere else, anywhere. He’ll get his old pup tent out of the car, hike deep into the woods and hide. But it’s already late, the sun has dropped and is fading through the trees. He pitches the tent in a nearby spot, unrolls his sleeping bag, and flops down. Sleep evades him, taunting, out of reach.
He retrieves his guitar and strums quietly, following Jade’s distant magic. He knows her songs like they’re his own. When the music stops, he tries again for sleep and this time succeeds.
A rustle outside the tent wakes him. He sits and listens: no music or crowd noise, only the steady wind in the trees. And the rustle. The entrance flap moves and a small light shines in followed by a body.
“Jade?”
“Hello, Adam.” She presses close against him.
This is how his life will start over. Right now. He returns the closeness and smells some unexplored delight in her hair and smile. Wild expectation.
Yet not at all what he expects.
Jade moves Adam into a cross-legged seated position and sits the same, facing him. Only their knees touch. She gently adjusts his face so their eyes meet. She holds his hands.
They sit motionless and breathe together, forever, until Adam’s separateness dissolves.
Then she bumps her forehead against his and the universe explodes.
Later, they lie on their backs, tight together in a grassy field, faces up to the night sky.
His hands and torso are diaphanous, glowing. Hers are the same.
“Did I die?”
“Yes, and now you’re reborn.”
He squirms. “I, I don’t know…”
“Adam, shhhh.”
She takes his hand in hers, stretches them both high above them. “Look carefully. Focus on the fingers.”
Their glows intermix yet the fingers also display as separate human skin and structure.
Hers are especially gorgeous. He kisses her hand.
Jade laughs and says, “And there’s that, too.”
Adam points to the stars. “Are we from out there?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t I know until now?”
“You got away from us. Many did. And now we’re re-assembling.”
“Are we going back?”
“No. Not yet. We haven’t finished here.”
“So, this is our home now?”
Jade waves her hand around the sky and then touches Adam’s heart. The stress of human existence drains out of him. He remembers the what and why of everything.
“The entire universe is our home,” she says. “Welcome Home.”
Dan Yokum is an almost retired graphic designer who decided some years ago that creating fiction is more exciting than slogging through web content. Since then, he has written and stashed numerous beginnings, and is now completing many, transitioning to a full-time life of chasing the thrill of the story. He has had three short stories published and is working on second drafts of two novels.