SIGNATURE, CHARLIE
My Uncle Lem was lame; he
had an off-sized head, tilted, as
it were, by noises from the war.
That's all he'd ever say anyway.
Percussive ticks. Memories of
only bad things. It never bothered
me to see him waver. He lived
until he was 81.
-
That was really old to me, as a
kid. I thought people automatically
died at 60. Any figures of authority
I knew about were already as old
as they could be and probably
nearing 60. Too. (62?). Boy,
this world was screwy.
-
Do you understand me? The
principal at the local school, a
Mr. Lund, was probably as old
as that anyway, and he looked too
bland to go on living. My parents -
we used to joke as I guessed their
yearly ages - were entering their
30's and already ruing the fact.
-
What else was there left to do but
go on living?, I used to wonder. This
life was just a bunch of problems, a
real muck and mire to get stuck in.
'Arise from their graves and aspire,
to where my Sunflower wishes to
go.' William Blake wrote that; one
of the earliest things I learned.
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