How Many Days

I always hated the border crossing at
Blaine. Something about me always
reeked of bad guy, even when I was
a boy (of course, then it was "bad
boy"). They put me through
the ringer, on both sides of the line,
coming and going, so many times
I can't count. Once, returning home
after a couple of days in Vancouver,
I pulled up to my customs officer after
being waved forward. "Citizenship?"
he asked. I told him, then he said,
"How long have you been a US citizen?"
"Since I was born," I replied with a
timid look of indignation. "What's the
matter, you don't remember when that
was?" the officer asked in return. I think
my most treasured moments might just
be the ones when someone or something
forces me to remember how
goddamn old I am, as badly as I'd like
to forget, gives me no choice but to
remember how long it's been since
anything really happened in my life,
how many years since I fell in love, how
many nights I've spent standing
anywhere looking up at the stars. Yes,
I'm sure of it now: I have no treasures
greater than remembering how many
years have passed and, after all of it,
I'm still here, hobbling worse than
ever, but still here, still railing against
every ounce of what's wrong, in the
world, in all of our hearts, still hating
and loving borders, and now somewhat
tearfully reminiscing about the days I've
been expected to remember how many
days I can remember.

(2006)