Object Permanenceby Rita Anderson
Just as I am sure you must be around, sharing a piece of the invisible universe, somewhere, a gorilla sweats in the shade, eating aphids from a leafless stick. . . Not counting trips to the bathroom, I am down to four hours of sleep and when I dream I am with Houdini, swimming in an ocean of liquid ice. We keep our eyes open, waving our hands like windshield blades to recover the exit in the fist-thick ice overhead. He is better at floating close to the top where you can almost catch a breath between waves, but it will be over soon: for all of his magic, there is no escaping an ironic end. In the middle of the ordeal, I remember this isn't my tragedy and I am rescued to a warm room where I remove my brain to soak it like you could a pair of dentures. --In the morning when I slip into the kitchen to pour my son a second bowl of cereal, he no longer cries, afraid that because I have exceeded his sight I've disappeared, and when my right hand hides the red ball behind the abyss of my back, he anticipates the left hand’s finding it, certain of its return. |