Late night it’s ink-black where we live—no streetlights, no cars, all dark air & trees, so if I head to the bathroom at night, I must take care not to hit a wall. Turn on a light? Nope: would wake my wife.
Blind like that, through the years I learned my steps, but sometimes I’d have bad luck, run into the doorjamb, yelp in shock, wake her. So thought of a new way—stretch out my arms out like a guy in old T.V. shows who sleepwalks—one touch of wall or door, I’d know I’d gone wrong.
That worked great—touch wood, change course. All went well for months, then one night I hopped out of bed, went full-bore for the john, and by god somehow the edge of our door found its way through the six-inch space that gapped my hands and wham! whacked me in the face.
Huge noise, of course—thick skull—I moan, sway, drop back onto the bed, half blacked-out, wife wakes, big scene.
Since then I take a new tack: arms stuck out but hands now joined, for the blind man born that night learned that when one holds out one’s arms, hands free, those selfsame hands say to the world Come to me, my love, and once in a great while, like a wild boy, free for the night, stiff with glee, it does.
Gerald Fleming | Mad at the Moon Contents | Mudlark No. 56 (2015)