I’m writing here to see what I remember from a moment ago; I’ll see how fast the moment ahead passes. I’m in Santa Fe, where time may be moving more slowly, where it’s two hours behind already for this Floridian. They talk about the manaña syndrome this close to Mexico, and it’s certainly slow and easy going for me, here in a house on Calle Lento--Slow Street--on summer break, far away from the set pace of home. Slowed down, the moments in my day can be peered into, but I’m afraid they are only full of what I am doing, no mysteries. Time only turns mysterious when you look back and wonder where it went . . . so it’s memory that is mysterious, not time. How we see time after the piece we’re looking at has passed. We try to remember the leaf we saw out of the corner of our eye as it slipped out of sight down the river. Or the ring we dropped into the river and couldn’t find, after treasuring it for only one day. Or the man we fell in love with tubing on the river that day in June, the one we later married. It’s the goneness that’s mysterious. We know it doesn’t exist now except as we remember it, and it’s crumbling or calcifying—it’s changing, and it’s not anywhere near as good, we believe, as that time when it was there. The attempt to recall it is satisfying, may even make it more perfect and give it sense it didn’t have, but the moment is gone, and we can’t examine it to verify anything in it. We have to imagine to fill in the gaps, we have to be artists all the time. Artists who rarely get any credit but work night and day, whose work will be destroyed with the passage of very little time, amounts of time you can’t predict. Usually a few days wipe out a decent memory. It takes too much time to keep one alive, stretching it with attention every day. How long will it seem to fit in each day or seem worthwhile to nurture it, even for a moment? The occupation of remembering uses up time that could be spent creating new memories that might turn out to be more useful or sweet. It’s 12:07. I’ve put in a load of laundry, balanced my checkbook, prepared mail. I come here and write, hop up for a chore, sit back down. That’s what’s in these moments. But when I think back on how I “used” my days here, will I be astonished by something related to this ordinary morning? One thing is certain: that I have written this down will preserve a part of this morning--a way of looking at it?--that would surely have been lost to me. Now I’ll know what time it was when I put in the dark load. The sketchy record will tell me about this time . . . I’ll be able to tell what the time was like . . . I’ll tell time who I was here today.