At one point in time

At one point in time I would laugh when Charlotte blew out raspberries and extended her arms in front of her. At one point in time I would smile when Matthew rolled over on the carpet for the first time, and began to crawl across Grandma’s living room floor. At one point in time I could hear the soles of my Mary Janes on my mother’s hardwood floors, running to her midsection for a morning hug before breakfast. At one point in time I remember the rustling of the New York Times as my father sat in the kitchen room, after a pancake breakfast, absorbing the day’s news. At one point in time I remember Richard Nixon’s Watergate, Gerald Ford’s falls, Jimmy Carter’s mad rabbits, and Ronald Reagan’s astrologists. And at one point in time I walked down the aisle of St. James’s Episcopal Church on Geoffrey’s arm.

But at this point in time I live in a desert. Charlotte and Matthew have grown up, had their little rebellions (“don’t you know anything, Mom,” which was never a question). My own parents have gone to the great beyond after drawn-out illnesses that never seemed liked they’d end, but they ended all too quickly, and padded the coffers of the medical establishment. At this point in time Geoffrey is gone, too, but to a younger woman with firm breasts and a smartphone. My contact isn’t in it.

At this point in time I live alone, my ancient pug and rambunctious kitty keeping me company. At this point in time I’m not interested in settling down with a man, and barely interested in having one, even for a mad night. At this point in time I’d like to figure out my identity. By the way, my name is Guinevere and has been, at all points in time.