For the second time in a week since arriving in Detroit, I felt the presence of the hundreds of lives that had passed through the spot where I now stood. All the years moved through me in a breath, carrying each being that had passed this way. I felt their spirits climbing the grand stairwell, riding the elevators, laying to rest in rooms above me. I felt the women pushing carts filled with fresh sheets down hallways overhead and men gathering the discarded ones to wash in the basement below. I suddenly knew every person who had left their distinct mark in this building. I could see them, feel them, like a man laughing for fear that he might reveal his distaste for his lover, like the woman sitting on the edge of her bed heaving sobs for her failings. It reminded me of that first day, walking into the Aunts’ house to meet all those present and gone. I wasn’t sure how I knew these things, but I did, and I knew they were as true as the caterpillar tickling my hand. 

“Here.” I heard a voice wafting through the big hall in the form of a whisper. 

I turned slowly straining to find the source, but coming up with darkness and vacant space. The only other breath besides mine was the one in my palm. The slow calm brush strokes of its many feet across my skin, tickled. The bug was unfazed by his capture and the change in scenery. I had to assume in fact, it didn’t give a crap where it was, it just kept going forward regardless of where it arrived. Did bugs have destinations? Did people?