The ground crunched as I walked. I approached her and noticed that she was old and wore a gingham dress with a white apron.

"Hello," I called.

"Good day." She glanced at me with an ever-so-brief smile, and kept on working. Her face was old, but her hands and arms moved like they were young.

She pulled a filthy rag from her basket and gave it a sharp shake like snapping a whip. The sound of it startled me. All the dirt flew from the rag and peppered the ground around her feet. There emerged from that single shake a pure clean piece of diaphanous cloth.

She took two clothes-pins from her pocket and tacked the now-clean cloth to the line.

"Thats a cute trick," I said. "It beats the heck out of a washing machine."

"That's not dirt." She continued to work while she talked. "They are memories. I free memories from souls so the souls can be reused by the newborn."

"Wait a second! Your telling me that all my memories will be shaken out of me when I die, and tossed on the ground?"

She paused, wiped her hands on her apron, and smiled. "The memories are not lost. They are still there."

She pointed at the ground near my feet. "There, under your feet are memories from a century ago. Go ahead, put your face to the ground and breathe in a few."

I pressed my nose and mouth to the ground and breathed in.

I am running barefoot down a dirt path to find my little brother. I am afraid the strangers may have taken him. It is my fault. I should have watched him better. I start to cry.

I watch myself in a mirror modeling a new hat. The dress I wear is made of beads and shimmers as I move. I hear Bob and his new friends talking in the living room. Tonight, yes tonight, I will finally get to try ether.

I wake up behind a church, hung over from too much vodka. I wipe my face with my hand and smell piss and blood. Did I push her too hard? Will she forgive me when I get home?

From that single breath, I experienced dozens of memories, not my own. I stared at the washer woman in disbelief. They felt like my own memories but they were not.

I got to my feet and approached her. Dozens of questions hung in my mind, but I only asked one, "Have others, like me, come to visit you?"

"Indeed they have. When they die I discard their memories in a special place over there." She pointed and I saw a small pile off by itself.

"Go ahead," she said. "But this time don't breath so deeply."

I cautiously sniffed the pile.

I am a young girl from France. I climb the hill and find a tall glowing angel with broad white wings. The angel is interviewing the dead. Each is asked a question, then his or her body is removed from the soul and the body, now flat like a painting, laid on a pile for reuse in the newborn.

Some souls are permitted to run and cavort down hill into an infinite valley full of clouds and gardens. Other souls sink into the ground with a wail or scream and vanish leaving behind a puff of smoke.

"Why was her experience not like mine?"

"You experience what you believe."

My dog barked and I awoke. It was still dark out, time to get up and get ready for work.

END