by Emmett R Smith
WHEN My Grandfather died five years and a day after President Kennedy was shot, so that I could conceal never again my small hand inside his that was so big (he milked cows two times a day all his life), and the world now was so much more implacably solid and dense and impossible, then I became for many years altogether less real and substantial or remotely probable even, and depended at banquets of strange foods and while dating in college and while lecturing in distant halls, on my skill in dreams to grasp cat-like at the fleeting frayed shreds of others’ alien thoughts passing oddly over me in occasional Starlight, to sustain some semblance of continuing existence, on the edge of life. And, the worlds. Many years later he — Grandpa! — returned to me in a dream, and the Moon rose.
[Emmett R Smith all right reserved 12 September 2006]