"You will say to me that time passeth, that What Was is now only memory, that we
cannot reclaim or resurrect that which is inarguably past, but I am going to
quibble about this, and quiz and question you hard and close, for I dont even
have to shut my eyes and it is six in the morning, long ago and right now, far
away and right here, and it is snowing heavily, and there is a silvery shiver to
the world, and the house is silent except for how it sighs sometimes when it
remembers the forest it used to be, and I am huddled deep under four blankets,
and I know without even opening my eyes that everyone else in the house is
asleep, for when you are a child you have the most extraordinary senses, and can
tell the color of a bird by its song, and the day of the week by the thrum of
the rain, and how amused or annoyed your dad is by the tilt of his hat. Why do
we not sing these things as miracles?"
More from Brian Doyle in this marvelous piece.
