The single time I saw the future, it was to predict a spoon.
in 1988, my boyfriend and I decided to bicycle across the country together. Actually, he wasn't yet my boyfriend when we decided to embark on the journey. My sister foresaw that future, telling me "you'll be together by the time you get to California". And indeed she was correct--before we had gotten to Utah, we had shared our first kiss.
It took us two months to cross the country. Around the 40th day or so, somewhere near Provo, Utah, or maybe it was Orem, we slept in the parking lot of an amusement park, and the next morning headed north on some state highway. Slogging up a relentless hill, I had a vision.
Of a spoon.
I knew exactly what it looked like, half buried in the dust by the side of the road; tablespoon-sized, and with flowers detailed along the handle. Concave side up.
On that trip there were many moments for thoughts and visions to pass through our heads. I sometimes did math problems to pass the time (it turns out one can devise many math problems from just a few cycling facts: "...if I'm in the lowest gear with a ratio of 23 to 25 and I'm pedaling 90 rpm, and I pedal for 15 minutes and we've got a mile and a half to go to the top of this hill, and it's 10:27 am.....")
But the spoon vision was not a math problem. It just appeared in my thoughts, stayed for a while, and then moved on, making room for whatever thought was going to pop in next. The vision left me with no question that I would see the spoon. It was simply a fact, like knowing we'd get to the top of the hill after I pedaled 1,350 revolutions for 15 minutes. I knew the spoon existed.
Later that day we stopped, as we often did, by the side of the road to have a drink of water and a snack. We lay our bikes down on the shoulder and found a sort of grassy rocky spot to sit for a bit.
And there was the spoon. Just exactly as I knew It would be.