Is the never of childhood, deeper than the never of adolescence, which has a whining, stammering quality, which is a stamped foot followed by huffing steps, and wholly unlike the never of adulthood, has none of the bright spider cracks of reason multiplying along its roof, threading its dark dome with fine lines of light. Didn’t you think, with such a cavernous never in mind, you might have consulted me? Even a 3 AM phone call would’ve been justified. On the line in the dark, you could have shared a little childhood mythology, told me about some night when you didn’t sleep, couldn’t hear your parents, and morning seemed further away than “far away,” seemed consigned to a distinct and inimitable never. You could’ve evoked for me the particular textures of that never, explained that you were mulling them again now, assaying them for a contemporary application. Sure, I’d have been startled. What would you expect— hearing how your childhood bed sank into a hollow in the earth, or how nighttime had, snickering, closed you in its trench coat, and how the residue of the experience, the resin it left, you were brewing into something for us. I’d have wanted to see you right away and would have been myself forced to wait till next morning. So, I, too, would’ve spent an evening in an underground hollow, or bundled up inside night’s coat, wading through one never on the off chance that I could forestall another. Copyright © 2014 by Benjamin S. Grossberg. Used with permission of the author. |
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