Most of what I ever wish to write I think of while driving. It’s usually on the Pomfret Road, a stretch of windy pavement that I follow for some eight or nine miles on my daily commute. There are few places to pull over and a lot of fields, streams and mountains to view. It’s a good place to think and its vistas and shadows act as a constant muse. Often, when I arrive at the Teago Store in Pomfret, I pull over and jot incoherent notes on a napkin or envelope. I find these later in my purse, or fallen in the driveway when they are pulled free of the car with the groceries. Today I mused about time while hearing the Story Corps broadcast by Vietnam veterans.
What is time really, but that which puts space between us
Makes our stories, thens
And our hopes, somedays
Makes our now seem all the harder to grasp
When now and what now is