Free Silhouette by Dave Swavely

pool that appeared to be open to the weather but actually was enclosed by an invisible transteel canopy, which somehow kept harmful rays from Paul and his family but still allowed them to enjoy the sun. It also kept the water and air under it warm in the winter. I remembered how Paul had introduced me to this marvel by lobbing toward the pool one of his son’s balls, which bounced against nothing in the middle of the air and rolled slowly down more nothing until it was back on the ground. I remembered how Lynette had loved that trick, too, and my eyes watered up again.
    I set the car down next to Paul’s, and saw him stepping out of the main house to greet me, followed by his twin daughters, who had often played with Lynette, though they were a few years older. As I exited the car and walked to them, they each hung on one of their father’s arms, and said, “Hi, Uncle Michael,” almost simultaneously. Neither Paul nor I had brothers, so Lynette had addressed him in the same way, as “Uncle Paul.”
    â€œHi, Hilly. Hi, Jessa,” I replied. “How are you?” They said, “Fine,” dutifully but sweetly, and then their father told them to get back to school, which I knew was actually inside the residence, staffed by live and virtual tutors. They did as he said, half skipping back into the house.
    â€œThey wanted to say hi,” Paul said, the same pained look on his face, then he started moving away. “Why don’t we go over to the theater.” I walked with him, asking where John was. “He’s riding with Liria. The girls are behind in school, but he’s ahead right now. They hate that.” He forced a smile, and I scanned the horizon, as if I might see the horses carrying the young man in his teens and the Asian woman, whose stunning beauty was blemished only by the half-hidden sadness that always seemed to cling to her. Lynn and I had many times pondered its cause, concluding that it probably had something to do with a husband who, like me, was “out saving the world” and seldom at home.
    â€œIt is a nice night for a ride,” I said as we reached the big building, realizing then that the pall that infected my friend had spread to me. A lump was tightening in my stomach as we opened the inner door and were immediately accosted by a wall of sound. Paul frowned and informed me, over the din, that John had left the player on. He stepped inside the theater toward the controls at its center, and I followed, taking in the awesome virtual scene all around me.
    The holo flashed from one environment to another, in perfect cadence with the rhythm of the music, sometimes displaying various settings in different places at the same time. I soon realized that this particular holo was depicting a medley of moments from the life of the singer, who was alternately shown bellowing his lyrics passionately. Amid the barrage of utterly realistic images from his childhood and adolescence (Christmas gifts, a funeral, his first sexual encounter, his father yelling, etc.), the man repeatedly disappeared and reappeared on another side of me. So did the other musicians, but the one stationary feature low on the horizon of the holo was the title of the song and the name of the artist: “Remembering” by Prisoner. I had heard it before.
    Fading voices calling, flashing visions passing
    A spiral of time, unhindered by
    Remembering
    Long lost joys emerging, conquered pains returning
    A bittersweet thrill, forgetting but still
    Remembering
    Paul reached the controls, turned it off, and motioned to the plush seat I had bumped into while taking in the show. I sat down, and he did the same in another chair, planting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
    â€œI’m supposed to be the one feeling bad,” I said to him, and he grunted, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
    He shifted in his seat with his head down for a few minutes.