between this day and the next, a fixed point on the clock,
on the calendar, an arbitrary measuring of time.
We take it for granted, and it exists within our minds,
but not in the minds of all those other beings.
Does the cat care for the stroke of midnight?
No, it only cares for the staccato of kibble in the bowl.
Fairytales began at midnight. Cinderella, for example.
And in Brittany, one night a year, the old rocks at the River Ys
come down to the banks at midnight to slake their thirst.
I remember how we waited for Midnight Mass to end
so that we could feast on ham, and unwrap our presents.
It was a witching hour that lasted until dawn,
the bird chorus echoing our own arias as we waded
through the flotsam of tinseled madness.
And at the stroke of midnight, India became a nation,
shaking off neo-colonial shackles, slaking its thirst for freedom.
My grandfather, an Irish gunrunner who also sent arms to India,
invited to the midnight gala where they danced beneath jeweled stars
in New Delhi & San Francisco until dawn sent them all to bed.
Then the real work began, building a nation out of hope.
It was a time between times where anything was possible.
At the Exploratorium, I was mesmerized by greeny mirrors
endlessly gazing into each other’s sublime faces,
reflecting themselves and their endless visages,
where suspended time traveled at the speed of light.
7/26/23 Write On! with Susie Terence
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