An hour in December 1981- an aimless walk through an ancient olive grove. An ancient man in an ancient house with no door. Chickens and kitties in and out. His thick glasses, lined face, his iconic fisherman's cap. A portrait of a young soldier in the country's military tunic and tasseled hat, serving in one of that country's many wars between I and II.
An hour in June 1970- a surprise birthday party with the complex and shifting alliances of little girls. The round swing, made by our grampa, suspended in the scent of ponderosa pine. The crunch of gravel and the chiding of stellar's jays. I don't remember the cake.
An hour in March of 1988, a bubble of silence doming around us in the hotel bar, the mutual friend smilingly distressed at the success of her matchmaking, and the pretext of the friend in the band forgotten.
An hour in October 1961. A rented cabin in the mountains, grandparents in another. The view from an encircling basket, the distant slumber of everyone else. Mother says I cried all night. She also says I can't remember it, but I'm the one who described it to her.
An hour in October of 2002. The broad and slightly echoing sanctuary, carefully pacing out the words on my paper to exactly match my supply of composure. The public tribute that could never make up for the private complacence.
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