Temporal Vortex

A truck hauling hay breezes past me, smacking me in the face with all the power of memory. The scent of the warm straw instantly transporting me to my grandparent's barn...

I am a child again, eight, maybe nine years old. My sister, brother, and two cousins scamper around on the dirt floor some ten or twelve feet below me, playing tag or chasing kittens. But I can't see them; my back is turned, and I feel the semi-soft seed heads scratch my hands and knees, the blades and stalks poking and jabbing as I climb up the side of the stacks of tightly bound rectangular bales, something we were strictly forbidden to do. It is mid-summer and blazing hot in the barn, and our playtime activities have stirred dust and grass particles, which whirl around in tiny shafts of light from small holes in the tin roof.

When I reach the top of the stack, I turn and grab the rope dangling from the rafters about twenty feet in the air. A surge of fear and excitement shoots through me. I look down at my fellow thrill seekers waiting below, some encouraging, some taunting, and I almost turn back. I can't do this. What if the rope breaks? What if my hand slips? What if the rafter snaps?

The hay bale I'm standing on shifts beneath my feet, side to side, following the trajectory of my wavering indecision. Then suddenly, I'm free, swinging through the air with mingled terror and reckless glee. The rope creaks and pops as I reach the top of the upward arch and my forward momentum stops and changes direction, returning me to the safety of the haystack. I let go and tumble into the cushioning bricks of dried grass, dizzy with childhood delight as much as anything else.

Then just as abruptly, I am back on the bike path again, a middle-aged man enjoying a morning ride. Who said it was impossible to be in two places at once?