Sometimes it feels thrilling to live in this world, in this time. To know not the end of history and, if not, then the most we can know for sure is that things change, necessarily. So, as to what will happen to our “city on a hill,” one can only wonder. That’s part of the thrill. It's also the faith that it can’t get worse, or won’t. But really, it can. It’s hard to imagine, since, to remember a similar time would require memories I don’t contain. Not that memories are terribly reliable anyway.
My hundred-year-old grandmother has them, memories; in fact, that’s all she seems to have left. Crisp as digital video from some ancient Greek orator, her youth of first-generation east coast, big city American Jewish. But there’s no connection to now, so far as I can tell, no comparison of memory to present, no comfort in knowing. Though, too, she doesn’t remember the unhappy news of today tomorrow, at least she’s spared that knowledge.
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