Corners
The gift came to my mother when she dreamed of her English matriculation exam. The main question asked for an analysis of an obscure Charles G.D. Roberts’ poem, “The Potato Harvester.” She scored the top mark in her year for her discussion.
My grandmother said she didn’t know where Dieppe was or even how to pronounce it. She saw her son splashing in the shallows and calling out to her: “Mother! Mother!”
Gran claimed I also had the gift. I told her I knew who I was going to marry and had seen her though I’d never met her. About a decade after Gran passed, I was married to the woman not merely of my dreams but from my dream.
The future intrigues me, but I no longer want to know.
I have premonitions where I am an old man and others when I’m gone too soon. Seeing around corners isn’t useful anymore. It’s a curse. I knew my father was going to die. He was gardening, and his heart stopped. I was hundreds of miles away. Should I have warned him? Had my mother not seen it, too?
I doubt the difference between foresight and hindsight. Maybe I live my life backward and know only what I’ve known. If that’s the case, seeing around corners is like glimpsing the questions on an exam ahead of time.
The unlived life is not worth examining.
I open my car door and say I’ll be back in half an hour.