Historians are the people who realize

that the present is the loneliest place of all.  

When your grandparents are alive,

the night sky is a huge blanket

wrapped around your warm body at night.

Tonight for the first time I looked up and saw

how thin, how empty, how full of echoes it is. 

And I felt terribly alone.

But what of the grand project of history? 

Dig deeper for their graves: you will find them nowhere.

The present is interminably alone with itself;

the lone frightful survivor of all its deceased cousins.

Flee, flee the feeling that you have inherited the world,

and make friends of the dead, for the dead

converse more readily than any other.

And what a wonderful banquet was history: 

Everyone was connected in the past, for it is easier

to imagine actions, communion, stories,

than people sitting alone for long hours on end.

But once all your parents and friends are dead,

you will see what history never told you.

The present is the loneliest place of all.