The Path Gone Green

The soil underfoot is soft, yielding a weightless resistance. I stand in the overgrown back garden, where the cedar fence lines the far wall. The air smells of wet slate and cut grass. On the wrought iron patio table rests a photograph: a man in a yellow suit, and me, my face faint, only an outline visible within the yellow bloom. I touch the paper; the image skin is cool to the touch. My own name does not exist today, a fact that settles over me like a sheet of gauze, making the gravity feel wrong. I walk toward the climbing jasmine. The path I used to enter through the back gate is gone, replaced by uncut lavender and moss. I step onto the green patch where the pavement should be, and the ground lists the names of streets where I should stand.