A Lifetime of Moments

It's axiomatic that life is made up of moments. In the visual realm, they are scenes: Three friends, arms around each other, sharing their joy at an awards ceremony. Grandchildren, then so small, at a park nearby their grandfather's house. Children, all grown up and smiling with their Dad. A girlfriend working in the garden, her hair long and black. A documentary crew situating a man in the center of the newsroom. Lights, action. A visit from the makeup artist, fussing over you. A beach somewhere in the South Pacific at sunset. A sailboat taking off into the night. A bartender hoping to be a journalist someday, mixing your drink. A homeless friend, showing you proudly a photo of his daughters. A neighbor, the local drug dealer,  taking his last breath after being shot in front of your house. A policeman, desperate for clues, at your front door at 2 a.m..A hospital bed and a night nurse leaning against the wall, telling you her sad story of wasted love. Just wishing you could give her a hug.

As you age, these kinds of moments come back as a flood of memories, almost washing away the present. But no, this is a moment too. As long as you draw a breath, all of these moments, and many, many more, will continue to play over your mind.

George Harrison's haunting song, "All Things Must Pass" is a reminder that this is but a temporary stay. Since it is temporary, the moments matter even more.

I'm often awake in the night, lying in my bed, thinking, silently writing the next chapter of my book.

These days, I imagine many of us are awake at night. Our physical interactions, most of them, are so awkward now.

***

For months I have been living a trifurcated life, split between San Francisco, Millbrae and El Cerrito.  Until recently, this was only vaguely related to the virus. Some of my things were here, some there, and still others *there*. Many were waiting for new owners on a sidewalk in San Francisco. Virtually all of my books are now gone -- thousands of them left at a book recycling center in El Cerrito.

My journals, critical resources for my memoir, are locked down in the facility in Millbrae. If I go back there, I will be told to not leave my room for fourteen days.

This disease has turned us all into prisoners of fear.

Personally, I prefer hope. Even these moments can be special. Waving has become the new handshake. Strangers are the new friends. Masks do not need to hide our smiles. We can pull down our mask, for a moment.

***

Many years ago, I was stuck on a plane in Milan. We were supposed to take off in the direction of Switzerland, which of course is very nearby. But a snowstorm had iced down our wings. It was freezing cold outside and not all that much warmer inside the plane.

The pilot politely explained our dilemma, that our wings were too weighed down with ice to safely take off, and soon a small army of men appeared on the airplane's wings, washing off the ice with hoses. They waved to us, trapped behind the windows.

But the water they sprayed soon turned into ice as well. I had the distinct impression that the workmen were not particularly familiar with de-icing a plane, though they did seem skilled at noticing the faces of pretty women framed by the oval windows near the wings.

Finally, the pilot announced the effort had failed and we deplaned for buses that carried us back to airport hotels. Most of us were Americans; it was an American airline and we were heading for America.

The next morning the weather abated a bit and we were taken back out to the plane, still anchored in place on the tarmac. I somehow was awarded a middle seat between two young women, Americans also from Northern California.

We all cheered as the plane lumbered aloft, rising ever so gingerly over the Alps. Given our ordeal the drinks were free, never a wise policy if you have journalists around.

Be that as it may, our companions and I chatted amicably all the way back across the world to San Francisco, with several stops along the way. At some point, they both fell asleep with their heads on my shoulders, one to the right and one to the left. I stayed very still so as not to awaken them.

Eventually they awoke, and told me about their lives. In return, they learned about me. When we landed, we exchanged farewells and returned to our regular lives.

That moment came back to me this morning as I was writing this piece. How and why it so swiftly came and went is a mystery to me.

Since all things must pass, this pandemic will too.

-30-