Where Time Meets Itself

Time is irrelevant when it comes to memories. Thoughts of years past are as real as if you breathe them in the moment you are standing in.

1969, the smell of fall permeates her surroundings; leaves turning, there is a cold dampness to the air. The windows in the house are steaming up as dinner is cooking. The soft sweet sound of Crosby, Still’s and Nash’s “Guinevere” plays on the stereo in the background. “Guinnevere had green eyes Like yours, mi'lady, like yours When she'd walk down through the garden In the morning after it rained. Peacocks wandered aimlessly Underneath an orange tree… She shall be free…”

She is slim and petite and 16. She looks out the large living room window. Her focus is of nothing in particular but she stares intently. Her concentration is of another time, a time when she is more independent. Her face looks a little older, her clothes classic, jeans and perhaps a blazer. She is a student at a fine university studying the teachings of Piaget, of Chaucer, of Socrates. She is a traveler to places exotic, Europe, India, Africa, South America, her backpack, sketchbook, guitar and youth hostels a way of life. She is a musician writing as fine a song as would Joni Mitchell. She is and artist, a modern Emily Carr equal to the “Group of Seven”. She is a wife, and she and her husband make passionate love in their tiny cottage by the lake. She is a mother preparing dinners for her family, running her children to dance class and hockey. She reads bedtime stories to a daughter and a son as their dog lay at the end of the bed. She is a grandmother and her grandchildren gather around her as she tells stories of their parents and what they were like when they were little. She is in a rocking chair on a porch that surrounds their house; her husband sits beside her and reads poetry from his published works.

2006, the smell of fall permeates her surroundings; leaves turning, there is a cold dampness to the air and the windows are steaming up as dinner is cooking. The soft sweet sound of Crosby, Still’s and Nash’s “Guinevere” plays on the CD player in the background. “Guinnevere had green eyes Like yours, mi'lady, like yours When she'd walk down through the garden In the morning after it rained. Peacocks wandered aimlessly Underneath an orange tree… She shall be free…”

She is slim and petite and 53. She looks out the large living room window. Her focus is of nothing in particular but she stares intently. Her concentration is of another time, a time when she was far more innocent.