This Moment - October 31, 2010 7:39 A.M.

For over an hour there has been nothing but silence and the emerging light to keep me company. The anthracite sky is being slowly chipped away to reveal pockets of silver. I've spent this hour in the company of Proust, learning to retrace my step back to the place before. In the village of before, I am seven, and live in my oak tree reading and painting, pretending to be the captain of a great ship, clasping branches to navigate rough waters. Lights appear across the street in what I know is my neighbor's kitchen. Traffic is beginning, the number of cars shushering down and up the street predicting a busy Sunday. The trees have shrugged off the heavy cloak of night and are emerging persimmon and squash colored. Even surrounded with beauty, I return to before. In the city of before, I am eighteen, and live in the studio of color and light, holding a stick of charcoal like a compass. My dog is asleep at the foot of my bed, his nose tucked into his left paw. The sky is the color of old ash. Rust-tinged leaves clutter the lawn. In the metropolis of before, I am twenty-one, I am lost and live inside words that make the world real as they are spoken. The dog is awake and snarling, play-biting my hand, his tail a curl of joy, as if my hand were something other than my hand under the covers. A train pointed north rocks the house with its passing, and I think yes, this is how each of us are: trains gently rocking each other. Geese are flying over the roof on their mysterious road of air.