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k a t
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GEOGRAPHY HEALS ALL wasn’t going to think about it today. I wasn’t going to talk about it today. I wasn’t going to look at myself in the mirror or touch that place on my neck or sit on that side of the mattress. What was it that he’d said, sitting there? I wasn’t going to think about it. I focused on a camera: a dark box, with light coming in through a pinhole. And on the opposite wall, an image from the world develops, inverted and reversed. So if I stand on my head and look behind me, there’s the world, but in front of me there’s only a pinhole. And maybe if I walked towards the hole, I’d be able to see outside the box — but it’s so hard to walk on your hands. I tripped on the curb. There was slush everywhere. East of us on Hazel, a man dragged a boy behind him. Little boots knocked together as the big hand yanked him forward. He could have been a hand truck or a suitcase, skidding across concrete. The pair stopped abruptly under a snowcovered tree. I saw the man’s thick shoulders, his brown work boots. I waited to witness whatever discipline was coming. And then I heard the man say gently, “Stand right there.” The boy dropped his father’s hand and stepped under the branches. The sun was fading behind me. They were two black faces in the half-dark, lit by half a sunset. Then the man took the top of the tree in both hands and shook it softly. The boy jumped and danced, laughing in the falling white. “I told you it would snow!” The son reached out two puffy coated arms, two too-big mittens. A little baby Michelin Man. They didn’t see me
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Django by Patrick Sibilia © 2014
