The light takes over me: sitting in class; loving me sweethearts; or even just talking. Halfway through a sentence, mine or yours, I see unpredictable things happening to everyone but me. These sights are like the opposite of dreams. Nothing’s dim or vague; nothing’s unconscious.
I’ve never known what’s up for me, though. Besides, all my visions might be wrong. They’re flickering images running like little movies inside a light so bright it can’t get brighter.
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Since our daddy died, Brian has no more reasons for shyness or anger. But saying that to his face would be mean. So I prayed night and day he would bust through worrying. And then I watched him do it. He stepped out of the car and bashed straight through to freedom.
We ran past the trestle bridge and I heard a voice crying in the woods. Soon as Brian shatters his old, choking atmosphere, there’s desperate Polly, a feral creature inside a hollow tree.
Brian didn’t break his stride when I said, “Gotta check the woods.” He turned around, still running, and called, “Okay, see ya.”
I found the tree and Polly ran out so full of fury she ripped into me, tore off the whole front of my shirt. Low to the ground, tracing and cussing like I’ve never heard, she sprang up and stabbed my bare chest with a sharpened stick.
Later, when I came dragging back, Brian didn’t press. Like he’s fully forgotten how to worry. Instead he calmly cleaned me up. Said I looked fine.
Until I can help Polly settle, I’m not telling on her.
Carla’s in the kitchen and I mention—true enough—that I wanna hang out in the woods. “Can I pack some food?”
She gives me peanut butter, a bag of apples, and a little cutting board. “You dip slices in the peanut butter, Trevor, not the whole fruit.”
“Ah yah.” I pack a sleeping bag, load the food into a backpack, and walk the mile to the trail. Dusk falls early in February but I’m wearing the colors.
Waiting on the bridge, I squint into the afternoon sun, checking on her. She’s sleeping in the tree. Her anger’s rock hard but we’re through romping. Because she’s worn out and weak. I leave the apples and peanut butter and cutting board by the tree.
Stepping away as daylight fades behind the mountain, I realize that Polly needs a knife to slice those apples. So happens that I’m carrying my daddy’s buck knife with the steel blade he kept razor sharp. I gaze at the sky and between the trees, trying to see if Polly will get cut. Too vexed for normal life, Polly’s nonetheless dexterous. So I leave the knife beside the apples.
She’s curled up inside that tree but my guess is she’s woken up. “Nice up, Polly,” I call out. “I’m coming every day, five or six o’clock. And I want you to think about this: it’s no fun being angry. No fun being a sinner, either. Anger’s one of the seven big ones.”
Vivi taught me that, long ago when she was a conduit between virtues and vices. To move forward from anger takes patience. Envy needs massive kindness.
But patience? Nobody should be angry if that’s true. ’Cause what’s easier than patience? We’re in no rush. I’m as patient as the rope is long. And Polly’s gonna see that. In a few weeks, she’ll be filled with more patience than anyone could ever need.
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