Right Place. Right Time. Don’t Turn Right

Memories. They jump at me like a photo showing up in my brain, a gentle reminder from God to listen and remember. One time, while in Hot Springs, Arkansas, I sat on a bench at the Arlington Lawn, snapping pictures for my next novel, history being a significant component of my novels.

A man shuffled up, wearing droopy shorts and no shirt, sweat pouring down his back like a river. He clutched a tethered backpack and circled inside the gazebo near me, muttering to himself.

“I don’t know where they are. I knew once. But now they’ve left me. I wonder if they’ll come back.” His words spilled out in a rhythm, almost like poetry. And moments later, he drifted off, chasing the wind down the sidewalk.