For the past ten years or so, I have lived inside music.
At all times I carry a device filled with songs that have saved me. This device serves as a portal in that it opens other worlds. Or, rather, it does until the day it stops working.
The day my portal fails is of national significance. It is over thirty degrees. I am walking through a park that is a sea of yellow grass. Papery blades tickle my shins. The day smells of burning, from an estate barbeque nearby. The park is empty. I am looking for a lake, for light on green water.
I have water in my tote bag too, alongside books and my portal. It happens as the path steepens: coolness stings my feet and I realize water is dripping from my bag.
I understand before I look inside. Before I retrieve my portal and see, in contrast to its mirrored back, the screen is dull. I slide the switch off, then on. Dry it in my skirt. I press each button on the dial and tap the device with my palm.