There are a hundred thousand things I don’t experience every day
and there are a hundred thousand things that I do.
There are a hundred thousand things my mother and my father think about every day
and there are a hundred thousand things that my mother and my father don’t.
My mother says her mind is scattering, scattering like light
and she has a hundred thousand lists and calendars to keep the scatter contained.
My father’s brain is an encyclopedia of facts and notes that sometimes all come spilling out at once
and sometimes don’t come out at all.
My mind is a video camera, one of the old ones, with crackling film and focusless images
and it records a hundred thousand things a day.
If I could, I would plant her a tree to hang her hundred thousand thoughts on
and I would give him an infinite page to record his hundred thousand facts on.
But I am no gardener
and I am no paper-maker.
I am a camera
and I can watch
and I can listen
and I can appreciate the hundred thousand things a day that they think of
and the hundred thousand things a day that they don’t.
The connection between a movie we watched together ten years before
and the book he was reading this afternoon.
The rapidity of the weekend
and the slow drag of the week.
The friendly anonymity of people whose dogs meet on the trail between here
and there.
Evolution: An Anthology