Another aspect of time is trying to carve out
a little moment in which you stand away from the flow.
Can you do that?
Can you find a realm of freedom from the push forward?
And this-- there are two of these
and the first one is about someone
who thinks he's succeeded.
It's called "At the Post Office."
You might not have recognized me this afternoon
if you'd seen me standing calmly in line for over an hour
to send you a gift for Christmas.
Instead of berating myself for not coming sooner and avoiding
the Christmas rush, I seem to be standing just
where I wanted to stand with a good view of the serious clerk
at window two as he gave himself to his work
with unflagging courtesy.
What patience he showed to the gray haired couple
while they loudly explained that the big box
they heaved to the counter contained
a tricycle for their grandson, Humphrey,
five years old and sickly who could
use more exercise in the sun.
There I was absorbed in noting how carefully he
explained their options for shipping as if they were
his only customers of the day.
Do you find it hard to believe that I took pleasure
in witnessing a performance that meant a delay of an hour
in my agenda?
I'm surprised myself.
If I'd found an hour like it two days ago,
I wouldn't have been so curt in my note
declining the invitation I wrote you about
to compose an ode on the new bridge across the Niagara.
I'd have taken the time to explain
exactly why it seemed wrong to praise a feat of engineering.
At a moment, the country is starved for signs of spirit.
Or if that sounded too pious or self-important,
I would suggest that I lack the insight required
to view the bridge as a symbol of something
larger than cross-border trade and wider markets of the future
open to more and more of the same.
But why dwell on yesterday's failure
when I can dwell on this afternoon's
gift of a fresh perspective.
Maybe you'll be convinced if I include here
a few more pertinent details.
So I'll mention the moment when the grandparents
passed to the clerk a glossy photograph of their grandson.
I wish you'd seen him holding it to the light.
He studied it as if it might help him confirm his reasons
for leaving his bed on a frosty morning,
pulling his parka on, shoveling his driveway.
And driving to work under a heavy sky.
Maybe I'll add a page describing his nod of judicious thanks
and his quiet smile.
The longer this letter lasts, the stronger
the evidence that my breakthrough this afternoon has
been extended into the evening.
I hope you read it in one of the quiet intervals you always
welcome so you can appreciate how eager I
am to keep the moment going, how reluctant to be moving on.