After the First Death
“The path the bullet took, burrowing through the flesh and sinew and whatever muscle the bullet encountered (I am not the macho-muscled type, not at five eleven and one hundred eighteen pounds). Anyway, the bullet went through my chest and out again. The wound has healed and there is no pain. The two ends of the tunnel are closed although there’s a puckering of the skin at both ends of the tunnel. And a faint redness. The puckering has a distinct design, like the old vaccination scar on my fathe...r’s arm. Years from now, the wound will probably hurt the way my father’s old wounds hurt him, the wounds he received in those World War Two battles. My mother always jokes about the wounds: oh, not the wounds themselves but the fact that he professes to forecast weather by the phantom pains and throbbings in his arms and legs.
Will my wound ache like his when I am his age?
And will I be able to tell when the rain will fall by the pain whistling through the tunnel in my chest?
I am joking, of course, but my joking is entirely different from my mother’s tender jokes.MoreLess
Will my wound ache like his when I am his age?
And will I be able to tell when the rain will fall by the pain whistling through the tunnel in my chest?
I am joking, of course, but my joking is entirely different from my mother’s tender jokes.MoreLess
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