Monday, November 21, 2005


I was driving on I-93. The sun was at an angle, getting ready to descend. The sky was a soft, baby blue. Then I saw it. For just an instant.

It was a plane, even though it was so high up I couldn't make out any details. It was just this object in the sky being bombarded with the rays of the sun. It glinted brilliantly silver. Maybe it was an American Airlines jet.

And then, it moved away from that spot, I inched foward on the tarmac, the position of the sun shifted. And just like that, that silver glimmer disappeared. The plane was obviously climbing and it was so small now that it just dissolved into the blue.

If I had just now looked at that spot I would have seen nothing to disturb the expanse of sky. But I knew that there had been something there.

These are the isolated moments that linger on in my memory, suspended in amber.

Life is made up of a series of instants. How many do I ever pay attention to? How often do you?

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