Fortuitous Poem by Wallace Stegner

If we could have foreseen the future during those good days in Madison where all this began, we might have had the nerve to venture into it.
I find myself wondering whatever happened to the people, friends and otherwise, with whom we started out.
Whatever happened to poor Mr. Hagler, who had only his salary? Whatever happened to Marvin and Wanda Ehrlich, and the Abbots, and the Stones.
How much would they understand, from their own experience, of what has happened to us?
I hope they have done more than survive.
I hope they have found ways to impose some sort of order of their chaos.
I hope they have found enough pleasure along the way so that they don’t want it ended, as Sid may right now be trying to persuade himself he does.
…
And now I see the figure, dusty-gold in moonlight, coming steadily up the road from the stable. It is blurred, its shadow encumbers its feet, but it comes without pause, is if timing itself to meet the family coming down from the hill.
“Sid?” I say.
“Yes,” he says.