that was the year...

that was the year that each hill was a city. you could see them out of train windows, smoke rising, trip-wires, backgrounded and high-heeled. half ashtrayed. something you’d stand on your tip-toes to see, leaning over and peering in.

that was the year of readiness. a desire for power-point presentations, imitations of heartfelt seriousness, themes were in the air but we groped at them like high school make-out partners. spin the bottle. ackee ackee 1-2-3. seven minutes in heaven and a serious overbite.

that was the year they were impious enough to ask us if we knew where the euphrates was. those of us who were former lifeguards, or had played out that fantasy once or twice, who called ourselves “dutch” in private, who had seen the plans for phase two, who liked to think beyond terrorism— well, we were mildly shocked. we deferred our answers. we wrapped mufflers like nooses. we didn’t like the early skeptics, former cold warrior target audience testers, and yes, triumphant anticipators. we knew ourselves as an early cause, as paths grown hard, forced into the landscape of each hill. and yet precisely because no one asked us, we took the vow.