It's like a few frames of a movie flashed on a screen, and then the movement stops and there is only a faded and uncertain still image. I think I know exactly where this scene was, but this single image does not contain enough detail for me to be certain. Most other fragmentary memories I retain from that time I can place very specifically, in a particular room or on a particular street. The location of this image (and a few others), remains in some doubt.
I have no idea why this bothers me. I'm sure that I would not benefit in any way from recalling with certainty the details of that moment and knowing beyond any doubt where it took place-- other than laying to rest this sense of displacement I feel whenever the image comes to mind. But for some reason, that particular image has haunted me for years. If it turns out to be true that, at the moment of death, one's life flashes in review, then this scene is the first one for which I will be looking. I doubt I'll ever solve the mystery in any other way.
The rain tonight has been silken soft, and its sound as subtle as a cat's purr. Dim light filtered through a curtained window up the block has made a patch of dark pavement gleam, and I fancy the gleam to be a shimmering doorway through which I might pass in some dream. I can't even imagine what I might discover then.