The Photo Album
He lies before me, crumpled and ragged,
like a pile of unwashed laundry. And from
his dazed, lost dog expression, I know he's
got two, maybe, three weeks left. Perhaps
sensing I am about to leave, he lewdly thrusts
his swollen tongue through two calloused
stumps that once housed his teeth. "Fuckers
forgot my photo album," he slurs after several
gasps. I nod sympathetically at this indignity.
For how is a dying man supposed to treasure
what little time remains without some tokens of
what he once was? But perhaps this was not
what he meant. For why would he need a photo
album when we all, especially the dying, are
held hostage by our memories?
I am more confident, however, about what
passed by him on his recent journey down
the Via Dolorosa of Route 1. His last look at the
outside world, before his admission to the Calvary
Hospice, would have registered the improbable ratios
of Seven-Elevens and Golden Arches, bill-boards
for hair plugs and erectile dysfunction, strip malls
and used-car dealers, all while he sought in vain
for a final glimpse on the husk of his beloved Our
Lady of Mercy. Nor does it take much effort to
imagine the dusky corner of some basement where
his photo album withers and his memories, pressed
between the pages, faded and brittle like fallen leaves,
decay.
Beyond the window of his room the stars drink
in the emptiness of night. There's so much of it
that they'll never finish, at least by morning. I
turn to leave when his fingers suddenly clasp my
hand like cold claws. He winces at the effort and
his undisguised, naked, almost beautiful hatred of
me flushes across his face. All because I am alive
and he is dying. His grip is strong and I, not for
the first time, marvel at the tenacity of life.
There have been no birds for days.
Only still grey sea and the weariness of silence.
Sometimes, if he closes his eyes, he can
swear he hears time's dull metronome.
But he's not sure.
Enraged he bellows into the void:
Aeolos, give me some fucking wind.
But who's he kidding?
It's the nature of the gods to ignore you when you need them most.
With nothing else to do, he recalls the art Circe taught him.
What are they?, he asked, pointing to the symbols that burned like
phosphorus across her chest.
Signs by whose combination you can write words, she said.
Would their knowledge give him the power of prophecy?
No, she replied.
Would they let him see the thoughts of other men?
She shakes her head again.
Then what use is it?, he pouts.
You won't know until you master it, she cooed.
Which he now does with much difficulty
(like a butterfly struggling against a chrysalis),
until he grasps it in all its radiance, beauty and transcience.
But he's been tricked.
This art cannot be conveniently forgotten or ignored.
Like the tissues that spool a cocoon it has enveloped him.
For days he watches thousands of butterflies threading the air.
Then the wind came.