395 Readings | 3 Ratings

Mr. Wilcox

I don’t pretend to understand pain, how we’re each assigned X-amount of it that we must daily bear, must bear to keep from passing it on to those who love us, & all the while some billions of murdered people, dead people, victims of the most contorturous of diseases, are not even alive. I can’t remember his face or how he chose to die—he wasn’t even my teacher—& when I picture the scene I see the gun a sixth grader would imagine, a shiny Wild West revolver, his thumb drawing back the hammer. When I picture his corpse, I see it still, as if on a coroner’s slab, on a pool table, no face, only obscene memory where a face should be, only darkness where I want something, like weeds, like a pile of spilt white sugar on the tiled kitchen floor & no one there to sweep it up.
Posted 02/20/13
This comes from a manuscript, its working title is The Gaping Hole, that, when completed, will be a collection of brief biographies of everyone I've ever met in my entire life.
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