Waves of people swarm the sidewalks like the waves in the nearby ocean, and it is always hot. Shoppers, families, delivery boys, phone addicts, lost souls, tourists, girls of the night clearly in their early mornings and more. They all look the same, passing under brightly lit boutiques casting light onto them, and restaurants and whatnot shops. They keep moving in pulses, stopping for red lights at the advent of the flotilla of busses and taxis, then surge again. This is where I live.

The incessant nature of the sun and the heat and humidity and the nearby bay are our constant companions.

This area has seen human activity which has been dated to six thousand years ago. The sidewalks people walk today are the same pathways ancient peoples used in villages. People first came from who knows where to set up huts in ravines, then began fishing, built villages and began trading. Old pottery vessels and shards, early coin circlets and even the hull of an ancient seafaring ship were discovered here. And the life of the past continues transformed down today’s sidewalks.

There are wafer-thin young people and their wafer-thin phones, office workers, families with ice cream looking for bargains, wanderers. We are thin and wear light-colored clothing, all of us.

That is why I usually wear a black T-shirt.

And every soul here has a story which lies buried in the song forest of their chests. And the number of these untold tales, the profusion is mind-boggling, like the multitude of insects in the jungle which surrounds us.

Now, mind you, countless people were sacrificed to make this happen. Then, people were consciously mortal, whereas today, people are unconsciously so.

And all those moments just sped and speed on and on, ducking, bobbing and weaving.

What a beautiful world, I say.

What a beautiful world.

Mom and I are sitting by a fountain in the park right now, enjoying the fountain’s cooling spray of water. This liquid umbrella forms a mist which cools us from the heat which penetrates into each and every cell of our bodies.

And the sunlight pouring onto us is so beautiful.

I turn and see a man walking towards us from a distance. He is of average height with longish black hair. His clothes are blue and black, and he is wearing a blue vest. As he gets closer towards a pathway on our side, he spots us both. So, we look back at him. As he gets closer, he makes eye contact with us in turn – Mom first, then me – then directly in front of us, he places his hand over his heart in a gesture of warmth and smiles deeply. His blue-eyed gaze is intense as he looks at us. It is like his face is a camera and his smile the shutter. Click. One for Mom. Click. One of me. We are startled, then so, so, deeply pleased by this. We have been recognized; we have been validated and noted. We are living beings and have been noticed and plucked from this background of an overwhelming world.

I turn to look at him as he walks down the path deeper into the park.

I swear he is wearing a crown of stars.

Then he disappears into the greenery.

What a beautiful world, I say.

What a beautiful world.

Mom decides to stroll the malls, so I go home. I hate shopping.

“See you later,” I say.

“All right, Catie.”

I live with my mom on the fifth floor of a packed building. I work at a foot massage salon but have today off. When I get home, I make noodles, eat dinner and watch TV, but TV is boring now. Sometimes we have the Internet and sometimes we do not. I like to read fiction, but I get distracted easily as I cannot control my mind; it wanders down pathways I did not know even existed, and I say to myself, how did I get here? I wash the dishes then go look out the window.

The sun is still up yet the purple dusk is approaching. The particles of light which bathed us during the day are fading.

I look down onto the street.

The sidewalks are packed as rush hour bustles, but everyone plays their part alongside all the others, moving and caring not to bump into others. They dance smoothly in a choreographed ballet of harmony.

It all works so well I have tears in my eyes. What a beautiful world, I say.

But why do I not feel so beautiful?

What am I doing? Where is my part? There is nothing, really.

I feel abandoned and bleak because of the loss in my family. It follows me like a dark shadow wherever I go. I see families with children laughing and eating ice cream, couples strolling down the sidewalk, old ladies laughing while taking a break, and think, why cannot my life be like theirs?

I live in a black hole.

I admit I sometimes enjoy putting on a white T-shirt and getting lost in the crowd – I can be  anonymous as I gaze into the Chanel shop window with an unconscious longing with the others. This makes me calm, and I feel comfortable, but, eventually, everything bugs me.

The people on the street begin to bother me, they do not understand. I feel hemmed in, my shoulders slump, I cannot escape myself, and I pull in deeper; if someone bumps into me, I get angry. Then I feel cold and cross my arms to keep in my little body heat. It is terrible.

What does it all mean? Does it have to mean something? How did it get here?

That night I have a strange dream.

I am standing in an open grassland, and there is a bright jungle in front of me. On the left is a pond with green reeds. The reeds are a bright, metallic green. They are too shiny. The colors are all too bright, the silver sky searing. I am in an alternate world. I look around and there are no buildings or signs of humans to be seen.

I look down and see my stomach and legs and feet, but this body is not my body, the skin is dark and leathery, my hands knotted and my feet are bare. I feel my head, my hair is long, tied back and matted with some kind of grease. I am wearing a loincloth made of plant fiber, other than that I am not wearing any clothes, and holding a long pole.

I look at the pond and I see something in the water – I am attracted by it, so I walk to the pond and kneel at the edge.

I look into the water and see a reflection on the surface, a face, the face is a beautiful face, and I want to love this face, I want to become this face, and I want to jump in the water, but then I recognize that the face is me, I am the reflection. It has my thin nose and petite mouth and large eyebrows, but the skin is dark, as my skin is usually pale, but here my face is dark, with a few warts, but it still is definitely me. I have a strong feeling that I should jump into the water to become with myself, but I hold myself back. Then I poke my reflection with the pole, and my image dissipates, and concentric rings disturb the surface of the pond. Then, I stand and walk into the jungle, then the dream ends.

“Mom, I am going out. Do you want to come?”

“Where are you going?”

“To the museum in the park. The archaeological museum.”

“Oh, you go on ahead. I will just stay here and rest. I might go out for tea later.”

“OK. See you later,” I say.

The museum is an archaeological museum of the six-thousand-year history of our land. There are many exhibitions, but the one I like the most is the exhibition of old porcelain pottery shards. The indigo blue and off-white shards are under a glass floor you can walk on. They are embedded in the dirt, well lit, I like the earthiness of it, and I like to go there and crouch down, look at the porcelain pieces, and ask them to tell me their stories.

The shards are curved so they were bowls for food and sustenance for the peoples of this region for such a long time. Lords and slaves. Large families and children, eat, slurp, yummy, I want more! Traders and craftsmen. Soldiers and spiritualists. Itinerants. Travelers.

And all these peoples survived and thrived, pushing into new chapters of life.

What a beautiful world, I say.

What a beautiful world.

Today the pieces are quiet, meditative, away from the idle chatter in the hallway. I crouch down to get a better look. But after a minute, I feel something has changed. Someone has entered the room and is standing behind me.

I stand up gently, not wanting to alarm whoever it is has joined me in the room. I slowly step back and turn.

I am startled. The man who saw Mom and me in the park is standing against the wall. He is staring at the center of the room. He does not notice me.

His eyes are piercing, but a soft, inviting blue. His look is strong yet kind. He is motionless.

He is looking at the porcelain pieces on the floor. Spooked, I am unnerved. I gently move towards the door.

But near the door I stop and turn to look at him again.

He is still staring at the display, but then he walks over the glass panels to the center of the room and crouches down. He lifts a panel of the glass floor and moves it to the side. He picks up one of the shards and examines it closely. Then he looks back at the ground, finds another shard, and fits it to the first one. Then he finds a third, fits it and then a few more. The man cradles the pieces together into a bowl shape in his hands. Then the shards coalesce into an intact bowl; it takes about five seconds.

I stare in stone-cold incredulity. My eyes bug. He sets the bowl down. I just saw him create an intact bowl with his hands. Then he finds more pieces and repeats the process. He makes another bowl. Then another. I look into the corridor for security but no one is there. He repeats the process until he has about ten complete bowls. He pauses a second, then grins and grunts in a satisfied way. Then he starts stacking the porcelain bowls into a tower, one inside the other.

I am stunned and stare at the scene frozen. I do not know what to make of this. Then he turns toward me. He looks into my eyes just as he did at the fountain.

“Excuse me,” he says. His voice is soft with warm, amber edges.

“Can you help me?”

I manage to react, and squeak, “Help you?”

“Yes, help me with these bowls. Help me stack the bowls.”

I am shaking because I am unnerved; what kind of man is this guy? But he holds my gaze. He tilts his head for me to help him. So, I kneel down and stack the remaining bowls into the tower he is holding. In a minute I am finished. All the bowls he created are in a tower in his hands.

He slowly rises, balancing the bowls, then turns to me.

“Thank you,” he says, and walks out of the room.

I start to hyperventilate. What have I just seen? What has happened? Who is this man?

Unsure of what I have witnessed, I unconsciously peer into the corridor, but the man is gone. Then I remember something from another exhibition room here, of life size mannequins of the early people from the past in a jungle grotto scene. I go to the exhibition and walk in. The room has some figures in a jungle landscape with a stream flowing through. They are dark-skinned and muscular, with long matted hair tied back. Then I gasp. I am right. He is there. The man I just saw who I had seen yesterday at the fountain is standing in the back corner. But here, he is a mannequin. But he looks just like that man. He looks silently over the jungle grotto. His eyes are strong. I am amazed at what has happened.

I go home and lie on my bed to think. I am not sure. Who is this man? Do I have some connection with him? Did I hallucinate that?

The next day I go to work. I like to walk through the outdoor market to get there. It is always full of life and fun. A man and his young daughter jog through the proceedings.

“I am running with Daddy!” she shouts.

I go through the clothes piles, the food stalls and into the household goods area. And I see him again.

The man is standing at a table spread with his indigo and off-white bowls.

I stare in disbelief as a few people shuffle by, but there is no real interest in his bowls. I screw my courage to the sticking point and decide to talk to him.

“How much are they?” I say after moving closer.

“They are not for sale,” the man says.

“Not for sale?”

“No. We are giving them away.”

“Giving them away to whom? Why would you do that?”

“We are doing it to help people. But only the special people we can help.”

“Do you remember me?” I venture.

He becomes sharper and looks closer at me.

“I am not sure…”

“You passed by me at the fountain the other day, where I was sitting with my Mom, and I helped you with the bowls in the museum,” I explain.

His eyes light up as he curls his head to regard me, squinting.

“Yes, I recognize you. You were at the museum,” he says, relieved.

“My name is Catie,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, Catie,” he replies.

He pauses and says nothing for a few beats. An older woman looks over his bowls.

“And what is your name?” I venture.

“Gabriel. Like the archangel,” he replies. “I am a fisherman and I have come for the bowls.”

“Nice to meet you, Gabriel,” I say, extending my hand. He shakes my hand.

“Thank you for helping, Catie. Here. Take a bowl,” he says.

He wraps a bowl in newspaper and hands it to me. I take it, trying to be gracious.

“When the bowl is the only source of light, come to the harbor,” he says.

The old woman looks up quizzically then walks away.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘when the bowl is the only source of light, come to the harbor.’ That is what I said.”

“OK, thank you, and thank you for the bowl.”

I do not understand anything, but Gabriel nods as I drift away, feeling like I have entered a strange new reality, inhabited only by Gabriel and myself.

I go home and put the bowl on the kitchen table.

That night Mom and I go up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks show like we used to do with Dad.

The city provides the nightly fireworks show over the bay to celebrate our independence when we freed ourselves from a dominating foreign power some years ago. Then we became an independent people and city. So we residents watch the fireworks explode over the bay in their pink bursts and blue flowers to our delight. Families even structure their dinners around this nightly event, sometimes bringing food up to the rooftops.

Mom and Dad were among the second-to-last wave of migrants who came to the city. They were driven out of their home by a change in the environment, but no one would help them, so they passed seventeen days in a leaky boat with twenty-three others. They said it was absolutely terrible and would never talk about it. At first, they were housed in a bamboo hut community which resembled the bamboo hut communities of six thousand years ago, and then they found jobs. Scaling fish and mopping up in the metro. Passing out fliers and washing dishes. But they managed to save and opened a small restaurant. They recreated recipes from our old town, which proved surprisingly popular, and soon lines of people spread down the sidewalk like a fishtail.

I was born, then we were able to move into this building.

One day Dad signed up for the Merchant Marine. He said he could make a lot more money on the big boat. He told Mom not to be sad because he would call weekly and would send money monthly. He shipped out on a rainy Tuesday morning.

We never heard from Dad again.

For months, Mom acted like nothing was amiss.

“Oh, they do not have phone service where he is, way out in the ocean” she would say, or “I am sure he is busy. That is a very serious job,” or “I am sure he is on his way back home and wants to surprise us.”

But I could not handle it. I missed him so much. One of Mom’s friends said we should consult a soothsayer. She said Dad’s ship had been swallowed by a dragon in a storm and he was now a ghost. I was young then and I believed her.

After six months, the reality dawned on us both, and we stopped talking about him. Mom became quiet and I became a depressed teenager.

I could not understand what had happened and blamed myself. I must have done something wrong to make him leave. I was unwanted. And if my dad did not want me, then I became angry and decided that I did not want my dad; then I decided that I did not want life either, and life was represented by the place where I lived, and all the people in it, and I began to mentally drift, away, and my body went through the regular paces, going to school or work or stupid parties, but my mind stayed inside me, and I disappeared into the deep grey hole of our apartment. Mom and I would drink tea watching TV for hours.

I thought, “Who cares about anything?”

Why should I be a part of life when life did not want to be a part of me? Why could I not have a normal life like others? I became a rat and cut my hair short.

And I grew up, then entered my twenties.

This evening Mom and I sit on a couch on the roof with others and the fireworks show starts, with pink starburst flowers that shoot up to the low hanging clouds with a pop. Then the shimmering curtain of lush female pop vocals kicks in, like a giant dream. Everyone cheers. Purple whirligigs splatter across the sky. Green mushrooms erupt and in a low trajectory plane over our heads, we gasp in amazement. Silver jellyfish float up and explode into tiaras, squiggles of rose spurt then zip in interlacing angles.

It goes on for twenty minutes or so. Some of the works are launched from the ground while others from towers. We cheer and cheer.

Then I notice something. A barrage of red amoebas, which launched to the heavens then floated down like angel gliders, hits the ground and fires have started. Glistening red flames lick at buildings under the towers.

“Look at that!” shouts a man next to me.

The flames do not die down. We stare in horror as a blue inferno tower falls and crashes to the ground. Green jetsam bullets shoot over our heads and crash into buildings behind us. We hear glass breaking. People start running and scramble downstairs. Then the whole  structure collapses, and the lights of the city go out.

We are cast into a darkness of disbelief. We are completely stunned, sitting in the dark except for a few burning fires on the ground below. There are five of us left on the couch, but we cannot move. Everything is silent, a giant, omnivorous silence has swallowed us. We see nothing and hear nothing. We are immobilized by this — a this we have never experienced before. A woman next to us begins to whimper then goes back downstairs.

“What happened?” says Mom.

“I have no idea,” I reply.

“Let us go back downstairs,” she says.

We go to the stairwell but it is  squid-ink black. I get out my phone but it is dead. We are trapped in a darkness. Mom takes my arm, and we slowly feel our way down the stairs to our apartment.

I open the door and we go in.

“Do we have any candles?” asks Mom.

But something is weird. A faint light is coming from the kitchen.

We both stop and look.

“Maybe the light is working,” says Mom.

“Only one light?” I say.

We walk around the corner and gasp in disbelief.

The bowl on the table is glowing.

The bowl I got from Gabriel is glowing as it sits on the kitchen table.

In a soft light, this light is clear, a little dim, an off-white.

“Aaaaah,” Mom says, bringing her hands to her face.

I go to the bowl even though I am scared. I look at it closely, then slowly pick it up with two hands.

It is the same indigo blue and off-white bowl, but now it is glowing in a soft light which lights up our apartment. We walk back into our living room, and I place the bowl on the coffee table. Mom walks to the window.

“Come here,” she says, and I go to the window and look.

I see there are small pinpoints of light coming from apartment buildings.

There are other glowing bowls in the city. In apartments like ours.

As I look at those lit windows with people inside them gazing at their glowing bowls, I feel that maybe we have some things in common. I realize I had always felt distant from other people, but this makes me correct myself. This feeling warms me.

A minute passes as we stare out the window.

“What is happening?” Mom says.

“I do not know.”

“Where did that bowl come from?”

“I got it at the market. Remember that man who looked at us as we sat by the fountain?”

“Yes…I do.”

“I got it from him. He says it is special.”

“Is it magic?”

“Who knows.”

There is a knock at the door, and Mom and I go to open it. It is our neighbor. She is scared and we let her in. Then there is another knock. More people come in; there are five of them.

They are freaking out and jabbering away all at once. No one can make any sense of it. One lady who says she is a soothsayer predicts it is the end of the world.

Everyone is mystified by the bowl. Some of them want to touch it but are scared to. We hear strange sounds from outside. Someone screams.

Then I remember what Gabriel told me.

The city is being flung into slow-motion chaos. With no power everything will go nuts. Looting and vigilantes, and people will get hurt. I do not want Mom to get hurt. Her eyes are wide with fear. I realize we should get out.

I shush all of them, then speak.

“The man who gave me this bowl says we should meet at the harbor in case of an emergency. This looks like an emergency to me.”

“Why would we meet at the harbor?”

“We cannot take the metro. There is no electricity. The trains do not work.”

“Where are the police? How come no one tells us anything?”

“Can we go to the airport? Can we get a taxi?”

“Maybe we can take a boat.”

It dims on us what is happening. We are in a frightful situation. We gather at the window to look out. There is a dim yet rising noise welling up from the ground below, a slowly uncurling dragon.

There is a knock at the door. We open it. It is the night watchman.

“The city is going crazy,” he says. “There is looting. We are going to barricade the front door. Do you have enough food?”

No one knows how to answer this question. We stare at him.

“Some people are leaving. Make your choice,” he says, then leaves with some men holding iron bars in their hands.

“My God, it is like a war.”

“My Grandma told me about the last evacuation when she was a little girl.”

“What can we do?”

“Maybe we should go to the harbor.”

“Who told you to go to the harbor?”

We hear a loud crash from outside, and I lean out the window but cannot see anything.

“You see those small lights?” I say. “Those are other bowls in other apartments, and they are glowing too.”

We turn to look at the bowl on the coffee table.

“Why is the bowl glowing?”

“I do not know,” I say with a shrug.

“Who is this man who gave you the bowl?” says one of them.

“I do not know,” I reply. “But I think he has some kind of magic.”

“He says we should go to the harbor. Maybe he can help us.”

We look at each other. I am the only young one. They are all old, some in their pajamas and nightclothes. One of them is wearing pink pajamas with a kitty pattern and another is tall, wearing a knit cap and a Prince T-shirt. They are fearful. I realize that because I have the bowl, and I am young, I have become the de facto leader. I realize that I have to get my mom out of this mess.

 The situation becomes real to me. I need to find a strength to get us out of here. I cannot hide from life any longer. I did that long enough. I am in life and need to act. Mom needs me and the city too. I feel a firm yet liquid strength welling up inside me. This I can deal with. This is an emergency and I need to get off my  chair and lead.

I welcome this, strangely. I can save myself from being the lost soul wandering the sidewalks in a white T-shirt, like I have been for so long.

“I will stay,” says the lady in pink pajamas. “I have some food.”

“Mom and I are leaving,” I say. “You can come with us if you want. Get some warm clothes and be back in half an hour.”

Soon one of them comes back. She is the tall lady with the knit cap and the Prince T, but she has brought a young woman holding a baby swaddled in a thick green blanket.

“My daughter,” she says.

Mom has put on a big coat and scarf and has packed a shoulder bag with fruit, dry bars and bottles of water. I put on my work boots, a heavy jacket, and I find a piece of wood to use as a weapon. Then I take the bowl. We climb down the stairs, the bowl illuminating the way. The watchman and his toughs push aside a pallet blocking the main entrance and let us out.

I hold the bowl aloft in front of me. It casts a light onto the street so we can see. This is eerie; I know this street, it is in front of my home, I have memorized every nook and cranny of its existence, but now without streetlights it is a pitch-black alien landscape. Mom, the tall lady, her daughter with her baby, and I leave the building into the street.

My heart is pounding in my thin chest, but I know I need to focus. Despite the light from the bowl, it is still quite dark, but my eyes acclimatize to the gloom, and I begin to see and hear things. People with bundles hurrying down the street. Doors opening then closing. We see a light in the distance; people are cooking on an open fire in the street. A shaggy voice says, “Give me your bag,” and I swing at it with the piece of wood and it disappears. We begin to walk faster, and I see another light in the distance; it is a moving light. We catch up to it and an old man is holding a bowl in his hands, and we fall in behind him.

In  a few minutes we are at the harbor. We stop to drink water from a bottle.  We keep going and soon there are more people on the street, It is still dark. Then I see a gathering of light ahead.  I push through the crowd with the others and reach the water.

I see Gabriel and  some people from our neighborhood. They are working on a boat, and the boat is filled with glowing porcelain bowls. Some of  the people are the girls of the night clearly in their mornings, a few delivery boys I recognize, and a waiter from a nearby restaurant. They have built shelves to hold the bowls and nets to hold them in place. Gabriel sees me and waves for me to come over.

I do not understand what is happening, but I understand that I can be a  part of a big change in our city. I am part of something important for the first time in my life. In an hour or two the work is done. Gabriel explains to the multitude waiting on the embankment that he can only take so many people. Some of them cry. Soon we are comfortably sitting in the boat, and in the dark, Gabriel and his crew push the boat off into the bay.

The glowing bowls light up the water in front of us as we float into the wide sea.

Our boat has glided through a small inlet and onto a beach. It is bright and sunny here but not too hot. There is a bank of trees on the left which provides shade. Gabriel and some of the girls are gathering reeds to build shelter. Mom and two ladies are starting a fire to cook, and others are  busy looking for tubers and fruit to eat.

The porcelain bowls have been off-loaded and sit on the beach.

They have seen us through challenges over centuries.

They are why we are here. We follow them.

I decide to go inland and look around.

After ten minutes or so, it is really hot, and the land becomes painfully bright and acidic. I am sweating too much. I look down and see my body has changed, my skin is dark and knotted, I wear only a loincloth, and my hair is long and matted. I keep walking. I see a pond, I want to drink some water. I kneel down by the pond, but it surprises me; there is something off about it.

There is no reflection in the pond.  I can see the blue sky with a few clouds above me reflected in the water, but there is no reflection of me. I realize what has happened. I am not me anymore. I have dissipated into the world. I am in the world now.

I stand and look around. I see greenery and a few dusty hills, but on the horizon there are no humans, no buildings, no roads, no power poles or anything else. But we are here, and we will bring new life to this land. We are a beginning. I inhale deeply, the air fills me, brings oxygen into my body, and I am filled with immeasurable power. I can feel it. We can do anything.

I hear sounds. An animal crashes through brush and birds caw overhead.

I look down and see ants.

The ants bring a smile to my face. I know them.

Back at the beach, I see my fellow travelers have been busy. I must have been gone a long time. They have built a few huts. Mom and two ladies are cooking a fish dinner.

A man has set up a bamboo kiosk and is selling household goods, sundries and refreshments like cold sodas. Some kids argue with him about the price of candy.

I look over it all and smile.

Gabriel sees me and waves.

The sun is bright and cheerful.

What a beautiful world, I say.

What a beautiful world.