The smell of lumber lofts from a skeleton of a house atop a hill of concrete and cut grass. On the way back home from our family walk, I slip on the rocks, open up my knee, and the prairie dogs across the street pop up their heads and laugh.

To make me feel better, Mom takes me to the ice cream truck, where I enjoy a frozen treat with gumball eyes under bright and simple skies.

* * *

On the way to school I greet the smiling sentinel with the yellow vest and a red octogonal shield; his name is Larry.

The prairie dog field is houses, now. That symmetrical suburbia is where my friends and I plan to wear costumes and traipse the dusky, leaf-caked streets to collect sugar in the darkness. My dad puts on an old record of spooky sounds while a scary movie no one is watching dissonates in the background.

On Fridays we walk to Blockbuster to rent a video for family movie night, the same road where I once slipped and fell and got a frozen treat with gumball eyes afterward.

I relish the time before.

* * *

These cold, miserable mornings aren’t so cold and miserable as I blast the heat in my dad’s pickup truck, listening to country radio on the back roads to first hour.

No more family movie night, because this Friday there’s a home game at the high school. My heart jackhammers my sternum as I long for that blinking opportunity to sit in the stands next to the girl I like.

Each couple coordinates their prom outfits—purple, dark red, light blue. Excitement swells in our hearts as we smell the meat and vegetables sizzle before us at the new teppanyaki restaurant downtown. On the way to the dance, I show off by speeding down the straightaway past the last prairie dog field in town.

At graduation, Larry the Crossing Guard is in attendance, a reminder of bright and simple skies.

I relish the time before.

* * *

I’m walking to class again; there are no crossing guards this time.

My stomach wells with anticipation for the Halloween party my roommate told me about this weekend. My first house party, somewhere in the symmetrical suburbia of can-laden lawns and Greek pillars where people wear costumes and traipse the dusky, leaf-caked streets to collect sugar in the darkness.

My heart jackhammers my sternum as I long for that blinking opportunity to sit in the lecture next to the woman I like. Sometimes, after class, she and I go the café in the Humanities building to sip a steaming cup of maté with agave nectar. After the midterm, we head off campus to the bar that serves green beer this time of year, and even sells frozen treats with gumball eyes purely for the sake of nostalgia.

I relish the time before.

* * *

Back home I get a job as a contractor in a field unrelated to my degree. I spend my nights cooking stir fries and sipping white wine while a record plays on my dad’s old player.

The peas and potatoes in the cottage pie warm my mouth at the weekly trivia night at the Irish pub. In the Spring, that same pub serves green beer on tap. On the way back to the car, my buds and I reminisce over a familiar scent lofting from the teppanyaki restaurant across the street.

I swipe right. She’s new to town, makes my heart flutter. On our first date we get a steaming cup of maté with agave nectar that tastes like college. A year later, I help her move her belongings into my apartment under bright and simple skies, and we cook pasta and sip rosé while YouTube dissonates from her smart TV in the background.

I relish the time before.

* * *

As I help my boy prepare his costume, I put on an old record of spooky sounds while a scary movie no one is watching dissonates in the background. We set out, together, into the symmetrical suburbia of dusky, leaf-caked streets to collect sugar in the darkness.

When he’s at a sleepover at a friend’s house, Nicole and I might have the energy to cook stir fries while sipping rosé and listening to YouTube in the background. Sometimes we even go to the Irish pub so I can get that cottage pie with peas and potatoes that warms my mouth, yet we never manage to go when it’s trivia night or when they’re serving green beer.

Family movie night is back; Blockbuster is a relic, but sometimes on the way to Tee-ball practice I drive by that neighborhood just to see the old store, and I pass by the street where Larry once stood vigil under bright and simple skies.

I make a detour by the road where I once sped down the straightaway to impress my prom date, along the back roads where I listened to country radio in my dad’s pickup truck. It’s not the same; the last prairie dog field in town has become a strip mall.

I relish the time before.

* * *

Ugggggh.

I lurch my way to the kitchen. I’m dehydrated, but also all those fun chemicals are evacuated from my brain, like a damn hangover. Some psilocybin is still hanging around in there, but at least my mind has finally figured out it’s in the present.

I retreat to the couch. Nicole is already in her spot, streaming something, glass of Chilean red in hand. Ever since Elliot moved out, we’ve had notably more time for things like TV and wine.

“Back in the realm of the living!” She reaches over to tap the headset which is mounted on my crown like a hair band. “How was it?”

I broaden my eyes, still unable to put the experience into words. I peel the headset off and place it on the coffee table. The device is light enough that if Nicole didn’t point it out, I might have forgotten it was there.

I’d fed the app a lifetime’s worth of records and memories, everything from old physical photo albums to social media posts and messages, enough for the AI to craft a personalized walk down a digital memory lane.

The shroom gummies, though . . . those were a personal touch. A little something to convince my brain it was actually there—the smells, the tastes, the feelings. But the plan backfired.

“It’s funny,” I say. “As I was in each sequence, I was spending so much of my time reminiscing over previous memories. I’d move into different stages of my life, but my thoughts just got more tangled in the things that had already happened, looping back, over and over again. It was like I couldn’t . . .”

She gets the words out for me. “Live in the moment?”

I shrug.

“Aw, honey. You’ve always been a little on the sentimental side.” She lifts a finger off her wine to point at the headset on the coffee table. “Isn’t that why you wanted to do this in the first place? I mean, wasn’t that the point?”

I pout a little. “Yeah. Weird how we don’t appreciate the present until it turns into memories.”

“Hmm, yes, that is weird.” She scootches closer on the couch. “If only we could do something about that.” Then she kisses my cheek and heads to the kitchen to pour more wine. I give her a thoughtful nod before I accept the glass of red she’s handing me.

We have a whole weekend ahead of us. I haven’t had maté with agave in a long time, and we no longer visit the Irish pub, but lately on weekends Nicole has been baking blueberry muffins that are warm and dark blue and doughy. There’s a homecoming game at the high school tomorrow night, but I won’t be going because the Beechers across the street have invited us to a barbeque.

For Saturday, one of my coworkers invited me over for beers and tabletop games. While I’m there, my heart feels full and calm as I long for the moment to get back home and sit on the couch and talk to the woman I love.

We put on a movie. I look at Nicole and, as she smiles at me, I remind myself there’s nowhere I’d rather be, no one I would rather be with, and no time I’d rather be in. Outside, the sky is dark and brooding.

I relish the present; I will remember this moment well.