blue hill reservation, MA 11:50pm
|pen||I put down my backpack on the rocky trail,
having finally reached my destination. At last, I am able to look down
at the city: Boston, in all its grandeur. Far, far below, I know they are
preparing fireworks galore for this celebration: the Fourth of July would
be nothing compared to this. It was a cold night, though, and even
my coat couldn't keep out the cold.
I checked my glowing watch. 11:50pm, December 31, 1999. The end of the millenium. A date which would be remembered by all for years upon end...if anything, for the number of computers that would crash in a few minutes. That alone was why I was here and not home; all flights were canceled through the next week or so.
I heard the soft chime of my cellular phone ringing in my backpack. I ignored it, reached over to my phone and turned it off. This was not the time to worry about who was calling me. I knew tonight, of all nights, is a time to relax and to enjoy the scenery for what it was; to look up at the stars in the cavernous skies above, and remember just how tiny mankind is in all of that. And write about it, most of all. I took out my notebook.
I could almost feel it, though...something was wrong. Maybe it was just the cold wind blowing.
|11:50pm||11:55pm||midnight||"on and on, the rain would sing: how fragile we are."|