Editor’s Note: This story was published in partnership with San Quentin News and was written during a writing seminar for incarcerated veterans in April hosted by The War Horse at California’s San Quentin Rehabilitation Center. Tens of thousands of military veterans are incarcerated across the United States, and these stories are intended to shine a light on their unique needs, challenges, and experiences. Learn about the seminar here.
I remember the moment Caroline kissed me—my first kiss, quick and wonderful and over way too soon. The moment was gone even before the smell of her perfume faded. I quickly caught my breath and rushed to catch my ride home from the party.
I also remember the moment in 2007 when I learned she had been murdered in New Orleans and, for a while, time stopped altogether.
Einstein theorized that time is relative to the observer’s location and speed. I believe moments are relative, too. One moment can seem like an eternity; others are fleeting and quickly forgotten.
The importance of a moment is also relative. When it greatly impacts you emotionally or affects you for the rest of your life, it becomes important—a big moment.
Most of us remember only a few moments in great detail: birthdays, accidents, graduations, incarcerations.
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As a young teen, I was riding my bike home from a friend’s house when I came speeding into my driveway. That’s when a moment happened. Loose gravel under my tires sent me sliding across the asphalt. I became aware of the cool evening air and the vivid green light filtering through the leaves of our elm tree. The cars in the driveway seemed to move sideways as my bike slid out from under me. I had time to consider how much it was going to hurt when my knee hit the street and that it would tear a hole in my jeans.
All of this crossed my mind before the pavement had time to rise up and slam into me.
That moment seemed to last a long time. I remember it not because it changed my life; it did not. My scrapes and bruises healed quickly, and I grew out of my jeans in a few weeks, anyway. But it’s important because it impressed upon me just how long a moment in time can feel. That first-time experience would become the reference for all of the fear- and adrenaline-charged moments I would experience throughout my life.
Thousands of other moments passed before and after, each as seemingly unimportant as the next. The moment it took to finish elementary school. The half-moment in junior high and the three fun-filled moments that were high school. Another half-moment and two years of college were gone.
Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm get a couple of moments. A lot happened very quickly. Just as I started my junior year of college, I was mobilized from the Navy Reserve. We rushed to get ready for war and then waited, hoping and praying we would never experience it. In one of these moments, I decided to stay on active duty.
The next 10 years spent in the Navy I remember as only a couple of moments—training, training, and more training, serving in Okinawa, Japan, and Twentynine Palms, California.
I married my high school sweetheart, but after a moment of seven years my demons became too much and that moment ended. The births of my children were two happy, fulfilling moments. But it scared me, too, when a moment later, I was the father of two young men.
Finally finishing my bachelor’s degree seemed like little more than a breath. Two glorious summers working in the mountains of California took a moment, as did working for 15 years in laboratories.
Eleven years in the Navy Reserves during a period of time that had the highest operational tempo since World War II filled itself with moments—4th Marine Division, 4th Logistical Service Support Group; Naval Hospitals Camp Pendleton and Bremerton; Operations Noble Eagle, Iraqi Freedom, and Enduring Freedom. Italy, Alaska, and Combat Operating Base McCoy each get a moment. Big moments are present throughout these periods but on the whole, each episode in my life is remembered as just a moment.
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Finally, 10 years of incarceration is my last moment—but not my least moment. My time in prison has been a time of self-discovery and growth. Even when a day in prison feels like an eternity, in the end, I still remember my time here as only a moment.
Caroline still means a lot to me. Even after more than 40 years, and many other big moments, I can still picture her smiling face and feel her joy in living. We never really dated and we never really broke up. We just became friends who drifted apart. A friend who liked me enough to give me something that no one else ever could, a moment that opened my eyes to new possibilities. These are just some of the things that cement a big moment into memory.
I could write a thousand pages on each of these moments, and the ones I didn’t mention, but the synapses where memory is held only light for a millisecond before the cascade of impulses moves on to the next.
A thousand memories can turn a whole life, even a full one, into only a moment.
This War Horse reflection was written by Steven “Wally” Joyner, edited by Kristin Davis, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Abbie Bennett wrote the headlines.
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