Monday, July 8, 2013


When Baby Abe went walking, the grass and weeds would wilt and shrivel away from his offensive breath like snowflakes on a hot stone.

I was once told that the grass of the field parted before his breath like the Red Sea parted before Moses and the Israelites, and I believe it.

I saw it once for myself, with my own two eyes, in the purple fields behind the house as Baby Abe stepped out for a walk under the moon.

He sang a wild song as he walked, more sounds than words, and with a force that must have made his teeth rattle.

He walked as though he had a stone in his stomach, and his skin sagged in loose rolls as if it had been tailored for a larger body.
The sleeve of his left arm, which he favored, was hardened stiff as bark with dried snot.

Where he went I know no more than where he came from.

He walked, he simply walked, and as he entered the woods on the far side of the fields I heard the branches writhing and retreating before his breath.

As he walked he sang his wild song.

He did not know I listened.
He did not know I watched.

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