It was one of those disorienting moments
That actually deserve the term “surreal”
Because they jerk the perspective away
From the real enough, the ordinary real,
And into an alignment that shows something
Larger, like a glimpse of the ocean shining
Through what had seemed a solid forest
Crowding close. I was telling my daughter
An old anecdote, often retold by my mother,
About the first time she’d treated me
To a taste of ice cream as an infant, when
Daughter interrupted. “What expression
Did you make then, Papa?” Without thinking,
I answered, “I don’t know. I wasn't there.”
“Of course you were! It was you!” “Oh,
Right,” I said, sheepishly, but even as I nodded
I knew I’d been correct. I wasn’t there.
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