3186. THINGS ARE NEVER WHAT THEY SEEM

THINGS ARE NEVER
WHAT THEY SEEM

Come with me, then. Let us notice the great
hundred things : the pantry in the parlor,
the lettuce on the cob, the wilt, the general
idea of - as it were - transfiguration.
-
When I was once small enough, younger
by far and as well, I watched, with my
father, a great conflagration - the roaring
flames bellowing black, and billowing too -
of a refinery fire or a gas-source gone mad,
running wild over the marshlands of
Staten Island. Nothing seemed to
matter, just burn instead.
-
I remember a crippled boy, then, too,
in his polio braces, coming over to where
we were, and asking for help at the water
fountain. He wanted a drink and was
hobbled by his handicap, hindered by
his braces. I didn't know, and couldn't
understand. That black scream on the
horizon had all my attention anyway.
-
But, then, he got his drink.
My strangely happy, good-deed
Dad had helped him. Smiles and
nods and thanks were exchanged.
The fire roared. The growing
crowd exclaimed.
-
Me, I was glad to be watching, to
being a presence, to be trying to
figure these things out. I realized
right then - things are never what
they seem. And I understood as well
the naming of all that we see : the
water to drink, the same water used
to put out flames? The nod to continue,
the same nod we'd exchanged? A
straight line is never more crooked
than after it has been called straight.