By Annelida SmithVail
Bright headlights rushing past me, cold air, dark sky. It’s still October, I’m 23, but now I’m in the middle of winter, the middle of my adolescence, elsewhere in Anchorage. The school closes at 4, so I walk 10 minutes to the People Mover bus stop and stand there in the cold. The bus arrives just before 5, not caring that it was scheduled for 4:30, scheduled by planners who knew nothing of this place, this moment. Something large rushes past with blinding lights—a truck, a memory? Maybe a place, a moment, which I can no longer know.
