I am moving through a tunnel. A kaleidoscope of images from my life is passing me on all sides.
There is the last family picnic with my dad. Over there, a rodeo grandstand and a girl in impossibly tight jeans riding a palomino pony like thunder and holding an American flag.
Each scene has a kindness inside it, impossibly beautiful on its own.
There is the Woolworth store in Wyoming with the wooden floors and the vacuum tubes that whisked your money away upstairs and came clanging back with the change. Here I am fishing for winter steelhead and over there I am standing at an alter with a somewhat dazed look on my face.
The future is here too. A bright scrim of days vibrating in superposition, wild with uncertainty. Einstein said every scene is there already before we reach it, embedded in a space-time block like pictures in an icy file drawer. He said the future is a stubborn illusion. Yet there it is below me, all bright and sparkling with hope and possibilities.
I decided to write a letter to an unknown American soldier today, telling of my hopes for my children and for him or her. It will brighten my day and maybe theirs when it reaches them. I could also decide to go for a walk by the river or finish a song I’ve been working on. I will put a copy of the letter in my file drawer with all the others. I will label it Love.
Looking around the tunnel–all the images seem to have that label, actually.