At This Time

At this time in American history, a man is standing at the rim of a canyon near the center of the country. His wife and their small daughter throw pebbles over the edge despite the sign that asks them to please don’t.

This week, they are on vacation. Next week, they will fly home and sit in cubicles for a year before they can do this again.

At this time in American history, the canyon is still the stuff of dreams, deep and wide and alien, and not the dusty hole it will eventually become. The sunset is a smear of color, and his wife’s shoulders are gorgeous in the light. Her hair is down in the way that stirs him. He is so thankful for her he would weep, if he could afford it. His daughter points at the clouds and says cirrus; they’re cumulus, but he doesn’t correct her because at this time in American history there are no facts.
A lizard bolts from under a rock, the girl squeals, the woman bares her world-class dental work and laughs. The rented Lexus ticks in the heat. They stand close and lean in for the photo.

I am having an amazing time, he thinks. I am capable of enjoying sunsets. They have four hundred thousand in combined debt and his daughter is already wrong about clouds, but at this time in American history it’s common for one to look like he has so much, and feel like he has so little.