1

Though it’s been said that time heals all wounds, some memories persist and remain inescapable, defying any attempts to reconcile them. Try as we may, they become a part of our daily lives. However, for a man who finally decides to face his own past, the closure he seeks on his journey of self-discovery unwittingly results in the creation of his own epilogue, unexpectedly written in the annals of the Millennium Chronicles.

Mr. Kingman in Suite # 2987

It was different but basically the same in this city of sin that still remained home to gamblers, hookers and various miscreants, all aimlessly cruising on a boulevard of broken dreams. Even though change is usually inevitable, some things never deviate from course.

Twenty-nine stories below, neon lights flickered and automobile headlights snaked along the strip, traveling the same road as Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin, Ann-Margaret and Don Rickles, and every other famous celebrity you could name. Through the years, all the famous landmarks like the Sands, Flamingo and MGM Grand, found a need to change with the times. Hotels became expansive resorts. Bigger was better. Pyramids in the desert made as much sense as a brothel in the Vatican.

“If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” Mr. Kingman whispered in his still noticeable southern accent. “None of you fat-cats were here in the glory days.” That was what hovered in his mind as he stood on the suites’ twenty-foot by ten balcony. Las Vegas had changed for the worse.

Attired in a white terrycloth bathrobe and slippers, he held the tubular metal railing tightly with hands that slightly shook. He couldn’t remember where all the old hotels exactly stood, and was unable to do so even from this same but different vantage point. Albeit renovated more than once during the last fifty years, he likened it to staring at his face in a mirror back home. Sometimes he was young. Most times he was old, which was the truth.

He wondered if memories are somehow stored in buildings, no matter how much they’ve been remodeled. Possibly, the ground on which they’re standing has an energy that radiates them. And maybe people are no different. This morning’s mirror seemed to supplant those thoughts: He was young and handsome. Had blue eyes that could pierce a concrete slab. Thick black wavy hair. A smile that could melt an iceberg.

Images are fleeting and mirrors often lie, however, including the one at the suites’ foyer. Memories trapped in an aging mind become prisoners of thousands of yesterdays that offer no reprieve or parole. Ultimately, the body has a mind of its own, and his once six-foot lean and nimble body was now just another memory. At home in Sedona, Arizona, a full-length mirror had continually taunted his vain attempts to recapture his youth. When trying to recreate dance- moves that in the past were second nature, more than once he’d twisted a muscle or heard a bone crack. Many times h