What Is It about the Past, and: A Car Goes

86 WAYNE DODD WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE PAST that makes it shine so, almost as if backlighted? The leaves of that long-dead mulberry outside the window glisten, now, as though themselves a part of the sunrise, spilling across the bed . . . Is it the essential “beforeness” of it that makes it so compelling— the sense that time, in its unforgivingness, has actually turned back to those days when everything (and everyone) still conspired to make life feel perfect— and, how shall I put it, dependable . . . 87 WAYNE DODD A CAR GOES down the street, or maybe it’s a bus, coming up the street. You’re awake. Or you’re asleep. Either way, there’s probably little you can do about it. Things come and they go. People come and they go. Species come etc. . . . Meanwhile, back at the (suburban) ranch (four bedrooms, three baths) the future falls apart all around us. Really. Who would’ve thought? * There’s plenty of blame to go around, of course. But the fact is someone’s got to pay. Someone ought to pay. But how far back can we go? Ticonderoga? Hastings? Nineveh? * 88 There were palm trees once, graceful and green in the sunlight. Surf, sand, salt breezes . . . Earlier times. Happier times. Before you-know-what. A history problem, then, as in “solve for when” (not to mention “whose”). Self-referential, as always, you may even name yourself, imagine your own story as history, your precious, small-bore life as instance of something larger, consequential . . . * There are always sirens in the night. Who knows why? Who knows where? ...