I have his words, only, decades old. How close is possible? Not within his neurons firing across synapses. Not riding his adrenaline when it happened. I can see the woman and boy on a porch watching the crew, watching him. A special Pennsylvania July in the tropics kind of hot in farm country. The orange dump truck, the t-shirted, helmeted crew smoking, the painted line unrolling. He is tall and heavy in the chest and shoulders, imposing in his gray uniform, campaign hat, revolver, in his face. Maybe he flashes back to his father’s cotton fields, the heavy bag dragging behind him, the long row of white bolls waiting on him. Or maybe he’s thinking about a movie he saw, or his dog or how much he likes fresh bread. But he did walk up to that mother and the boy and ask for a glass of water please, and the boy did bring it. Could they have smiled? After he handed it back and said thank you and turned and took one step, he heard it smashed down, hurled down, and heard the quiet go dead. He said this. He stopped. The crew was looking at him. He closed his eyes. He said this. He went blank. He said this. I feel him unfeeling. Is that blank enough? Not angry, just tired and hot and aware of all the white world looking on like that damn sun. Would you turn around to look at the boy and the woman? I see him. May you watch him walk on and listen to the crunch of his boots on the side of the road?
© Mike Wall
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