The blindness desired.
Coming, we call it--as if we've been summoned and packed one bag and boarded the plane to spend long hours aloft with someplace to get to. As if someone inside us, perhaps the past itself, is at last catching up, turning the corner, panting, as it has forever, just in time to see another departure. Oh, the past is always on foot, rags bound around its shoes, but it catches a glimpse now and then of the future it sired, and knows, from a distance, that child's favorite color and special games. The past sees, that's all. And our arrivals, these heart-rending announcements of ourselves, what are they but the mutiny of every other of our senses--a moment when the heart stops and, its closed circuitry like a door nudged open by a knee, admits all of us.