I recall a moment long ago when time stretched. My new wife and I sat quietly in a county office. A clerk at an old roll top desk scratched in pen on the pages of a ledger. Cheryl and I were content to wait and felt no need to hurry. We floating as on a raft, isolated on a calm sea, drifting on soundless currents. My beautiful lover and I awash in a peaceful silence. Seconds stretched and seemed hours. Nothing demanded that duration be measured. No hour glass turned. No ration of sand, the allotment of event, was demanded or given. A clock played metronome cadence to dancing dust motes in an afternoon sun. Windows glazed in rippled panes distorted views of fields and woods. Rural Maine, in repose, cooling down toward evening. We gave the silence our quiet attention. The moment lacked form yet seemed perfectly structured. What ceremony had we joined? Were we so at peace within ourselves then that we could participate? Was this to be our new life? No, the moment didn’t last. Like an open door ignored we turned away and fled that quiet moment. We exchanged a profound silence for the city’s noise and chaos. That busy life then compressed thirty years into another moment. Is it a trick of the mind that decades compress and moments expand when later recalled? Now what I remember from life is that moment’s offer of infinity, declined.