FELICITY STREET 1967

A beautiful Saturday in 1967 ends abruptly

Felicity Street, 1967

It’s the last week of June, 1967. A dusty haze drapes Felicity Street as I cruise in my white ’57 Oldsmobile, the engine humming like a low conversation. AM radio crackles under doo-wop harmonies, a DJ’s voice spilling predictions about sunshine on the lakefront. There’s a towel on the seat, an RC Cola sweating at my side.

Just another Saturday— Girls in cat-eye shades. Boys revving motors like hearts too loud to ignore. The lake waiting with open arms.

I drift through the light at Camp and Felicity, mind already stretched thin with daydreams— shoulders glistening, radios chattering, the scent of Coppertone and mischief. Then—

SCREEEEECH.

Rubber screams. Metal breathes in panic. My foot slams the brake. In that strange, suspended moment, I see— a family reunion. Checkered blankets.
Someone laughing too loudly. A woman’s red scarf caught mid-flight in the oak branches overhead.

Then silence.

The car has stopped. But time has not. On the sidewalk, sitting in front of a faded laundromat, an old man sits calmly—lighting a pipe.

He’s neat—immaculate, really. Brown tweed coat buttoned square, soft wool tie cinched high. His fedora rests gently on his head, tilted with quiet precision. Just beneath the brim, silver hair curls at his temple—well-kept, like everything else about him.

He strikes a match. Tobacco flares. The scent reaches me—cherrywood and spice. A holy incense in the middle of Saturday traffic.

Drawn, I step from the car. I don’t remember opening the door. Don’t remember crossing the street. But now I’m standing there, close enough to feel the warmth of his match. He exhales, and smoke surrounds him. Then it clears— And he looks at me.

Not at my face. Into me.

My breath stops. My body forgets to exist. Somewhere behind me a voice says plainly, "He’s gone. He never saw it coming."

The old man smiles—not smug, not pitying. Just... serene. He rises. Not like someone old. Not bent or slow. He stands like someone who’s waited long enough.

He takes a final puff and tucks the pipe away. then he speaks— calm and clear. "Are you ready?"

And the strangest thing— I am.

The car stays behind. The radio fades. Sirens disappear. Saturday vanishes.

I walk beside him— Into nothing I can name, And everything I already know.