The Walls of Memory

I wake up in a cold sweat. 

The world is spinning and my brain feels foggy.

Shaking, I spring up out of bed, narrowly avoiding banging my head on the top bunk.

As hard as I try, I am unable to orient myself to place. 

Think, think, think.

Who to ask?

What to do? 

When will I know?

Where to look?

Why don’t I know? 

My mind somersaults through complex mental gymnastic routines, trying to land on the answer to my questions on my own, all to no avail.

“Oh,” I exclaim, the sweet relief of insight.

“The walls, I must go to the walls.”

I dash out of my room.

I contemplate taking the elevator, but my query is too urgent to wait the eons it takes for it to be summoned.

My bare feet slap the stairs, slippers having slipped off after the first five steps.

“Quick, quick, to the walls;” all that runs through my troubled mind.

After an excruciating dance with infinity, I see the bottom door.

With nothing else in mind but my burning desire to know, I slam open the doors and burst out into the lobby.

There they stand, the Walls of Memory. 

The angst pooling in my gut escapes my body through the exhale of a single sigh.

A tear escapes in pursuit, as I am reminded of the graces of those who knew, somehow knew, the blessing of having these Walls of Memory, for moments like these. 

Before me, the words “Prescott” and the Union logo.

By Anonymous