The first day of Spring brings the first significant snow of the year. I queue up at Albuquerque's airport, where I meet a man in transit from Denver, also on his way to Florida. "It'll snow when we get there," he laughs. "Why?" "Because this storm's been following me all morning."
Some hours later, we emerge into the usual heat & humidity that woo me into forgetting the perils of poverty for the conceits of prosperity.
The Caribbean man who is driving me to my rental car hears his two-way radio command: Driver, return to base. He grins and says, "They know my name. Why do they still call me Driver?" "It's more businesslike," I offer. "But they know my name," he insists, the smile never leaving his face.
Tonight I will dream:
Two nuclear bombs have exploded in New Mexico. Someone says, "The radiation will reach us soon." My family and I jump into a car, but we don't get far.
Because the only past I
can know is present.
Because the only present I can know is past.