Thumbs

I’m listening to Boot Liquor radio play all manner of songs about whiskey and broken hearts. I’m thinking about the crazy homeless guy with no thumbs. I always give him my pocket change as he babbles incoherently through his broken yellow teeth leering in my face. How do you not give a man in such miserable condition your pocket change, and when he’s gone babbling in another direction, feel a little weight of the world? For some reason today, I feel as though I did that to him–caused him all that misery.

I want to be on the road driving to nowhere in particular with her. We’ll just enjoy the rivers, woods, mountains, and plains as we meander aimlessly across the country. At night, I’ll read her poetry in bed until she falls asleep. We’ll play chess at park tables under trees shading us from the summer sun. The chess will be an excuse to look at her face, and burn every minute detail of it in my memory.When I think a sad thought, she’ll read it on my face. Then she’ll say, don’t be sad, Lynn, everything will be OK. Sometimes, she’ll ask me to hold her. And when I do, she’ll know I don’t need to say anything at all. She’ll feel it from my touch and the rise and fall of my chest.

When we return home, we’ll fight back tears when we part. We’ll try to comfort each other even though it’s all we can do to care for our own broken hearts. After that will come the numbing silence until I recollect that, if only for little while, my paltry life was as right and true as it could be.

The man with no thumbs will come babbling in my face again. Life will go on.

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Published in: on February 13, 2008 at 12:05 pm  Comments (2)  

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2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. I wish that was me…

  2. V,

    Of course, it’s you.


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