At age five, after my country doctor grandfather dies,
fascinated by the black-and-white photos in his discarded
depression-era medical books stacked in a corner
of the barn, I study at length, extra carefully, one picture
of a man with not only bulging gray lumps on his neck
and chest, but also a black rectangle covering his eyes.
Why was it put there? Holding my hands over my eyes,
trying to imagine what it is like to have a disfigured body,
hearing rumbles and pings merging and building
to a kettle drum crescendo as rain falls on the tin roof,
I can smell moisture rising from warm gravel, hay and dirt,
overall a pleasant experience wrapped inside blind despair.
Share this post with your friends.
